Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Right.” Tatum grunted. “I have to go, Officer. Thanks for your help.”

He hung up and shut his eyes, worried about Zoe. She’d been in a hell of a state when she’d left, and he should have never let her drive like that.

Despite the chaos of the night before, Tatum showed up for Nicole Medina’s funeral. The priest’s voice droned, echoing in the church’s packed sanctuary. The constant sound of people murmuring served as background noise. Tatum regarded the people around him, estimating that probably only one out of ten actually knew Nicole Medina or her parents. Most were reporters or just curious onlookers.

Tatum was edgy from lack of sleep. He’d spent hours the previous night talking with Mancuso, with the police officers handling the manhunt after Rod Glover, and with the medical team looking after Marvin and Andrea. Then he’d lain in bed, trying to sleep. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but he had a hunch it wasn’t long before the alarm had buzzed him awake.

Remembering that he didn’t have a car, he’d called Foster, filling him in, asking for a ride. Foster had told him he wasn’t coming—he was too busy managing the investigation—but that Lyons would pick him up. She’d shown up fifteen minutes later, and he’d had to update her regarding Zoe’s absence as well, a duty he hadn’t relished.

Now they sat next to each other, surveying the crowd, searching for a killer. Tatum doubted he’d show up there, but you never knew. He scanned the faces around him, trying to gauge who matched the killer’s profile. A whole lot of people, really. Though he and Zoe knew a lot about how the killer’s mind worked, they’d never progressed very far when it came to knowing how he looked. About forty, quite strong, Caucasian. Also, Tatum had a very vague idea of his build from the first video.

A familiar face caught his attention, and he frowned, trying to place it, until it clicked. It was Harry Barry. He sat in the back, jotting in a small notebook. Their eyes met, and Harry nodded at him.

A police photographer was there as well, taking pictures of the people who showed up. Later, Foster and Lyons would have a field day, sorting the images. Tatum had already decided he wouldn’t be joining them. After the funeral, he would tie up loose ends and go back home. Marvin needed him. And so did Zoe.

“One of the GPR teams found another of the killer’s pits,” Lyons whispered to him, reading a message on her phone.

“Good,” Tatum muttered. The noose was tightening. He was quite certain by now that it was only a matter of days until this killer would be caught. The San Angelo police didn’t need him there.

Still, he scrutinized the faces around him, wondering if the man they’d chased for the past week was in plain sight.

He focused back on the priest, who seemed to be finishing up the ceremony, standing above the coffin. It was a closed-casket funeral. Nicole’s body was past the embalmer’s abilities.

His phone buzzed, and he checked it. He didn’t recognize the number. He declined the call, put the phone back in his pocket.

“They’re about to wrap up here,” he said. “I’ll stand outside, watch everyone as they’re leaving. Maybe you should stay behind.”

“Okay.” Lyons only half listened. She was reading another email on her phone. Glancing over her shoulder, Tatum saw it was the crime scene report from Debra Miller’s grave. It seemed disappointingly short. Nothing found in the crime scene aside from the body and the crate it had been buried in. Unlike the other murders, there had been no objects found in the crate—no camera, or cable, no props—and nothing had been found on the body except her purse. Lyons flipped a finger over her screen and began reading the autopsy report.

He stood up discreetly and walked outside. It was the hottest day since they’d gotten there, and the fact that he wore a suit didn’t help. He was sweating already. He decided to go for a swim once he returned to the motel, then figure out what flight to take.

He watched as the church doors opened, and people milled outside. More than a dozen press photographers hurried forward to video the procession. Tatum shook his head and focused on the rest of the crowd. Could the killer be hiding under the guise of a photographer? It wasn’t likely.

His phone buzzed again, the same number as before.

He put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Um . . . is this Tatum?” A female voice, fragile. Somewhat familiar.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“It’s Andrea. Zoe’s sister.”

“Oh, right.” She sounded like a ghost of her former self. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit better. Woozy. They keep sedating me. Listen, do you know where Zoe is? Her phone is unavailable.”

He felt a stab of worry. “Well, she said she’s flying back from Austin, so she’s probably on the plane. That’s why she’s unavailable.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.” Andrea sounded relieved, a sensation Tatum didn’t share. “If she contacts you, can you tell her to give me a call, let me know when she’s getting here?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Tatum. Bye.”

She hung up. Tatum eyed the procession distractedly as they carried the coffin to the graveyard. Lyons was in the back of the procession, and he drew her attention, signaling he’d join her in a minute. She nodded.

He dialed Zoe, and the call went straight to voicemail. He hung up and dialed Foster.

“Yeah?” Foster answered, sounding impatient.

“Foster, listen, it’s Tatum. Uh . . . sorry to bother you, but Zoe’s phone is offline. She might be on her flight right now, but she drove off in quite a state last night. I’m worried that . . . something happened.”

“You want me to check the accident reports from last night?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Tatum said, feeling relieved that Foster had offered. “She drove a silver Hyundai Accent to Austin.”

“Sure. I’ll call you back in a few.”

“Thanks, Foster. I really appreciate it.”

He hung up and followed the procession, watched them lowering the coffin into the grave. Nicole’s mother wept uncontrollably. Tatum decided to drop any pretense that he was looking for a killer and just pay his respects to the woman they hadn’t managed to save.

His phone buzzed, and he stepped away from the crowd. It was Foster.

“Listen, Tatum. There was no accident involving a woman with Zoe’s description. Two accidents with silver Hyundai Accents, but both were not rentals, and the people involved weren’t Zoe.”

“Then I guess she’s on her flight.” Tatum exhaled with relief.

“There’s no flight currently en route between Austin and any airport in Virginia.”

Tatum frowned. “Maybe she forgot to turn on her phone after the flight?”

“Maybe. The last flight landed two hours ago.”

Tatum’s heart sunk. In that case, Zoe would almost certainly have reached Andrea by now. “Thanks, Foster.”

“Keep me posted when you talk to her.”

“Sure. Bye.”

He hung up and dialed Zoe’s number, getting the voicemail again. He tried twice more with no success. A vague sensation of dread began spreading in his gut.

Tatum’s internal clock kept tallying seconds and minutes. Fifty minutes since the moment he’d realized Zoe had disappeared.

He paced in his motel room, calling different people in San Angelo, in Austin, in Quantico, anyone who could help, give him a shred of information. He kept thinking of the way she’d left, half-coherent, eyes dull. He should never have let her drive like that. But he had been worried about Marvin and had had a momentary lapse of judgment. He kept thinking of the Hyundai lying upside down at the foot of a ravine along the way or in a ditch. Images of Zoe in the car bleeding, unconscious, or dead flickered in his mind.