HE LAST THING MR. WHITE, the County Prosecutor, was go ing to do was call Demick back into his office after hours. The warrant would have to wait until morning. “I’ll go over his head if he turns me down,” he said to Weeks. “From what I’m hearing, we have more than enough evidence. See if you can find a connection between the captain and Briggs. Bingham doesn’t meet our perpetrator’s profile, but we just might find something.”
“Looks like I might be up all night—again!” Barker despaired. “My wife and I have hardly seen each other the past two weeks. She keeps asking if we’re still married.”
“I’ll stay the night if that’s what it takes,” Weeks offered. “Why don’t you take Stacey’s desk and we’ll access the National Crime Database.” They began the search.After dinner, Alan suggested Don ought to play a nice friendly— and loud—game of Nintendo. “Didn’t Melvin say he couldn’t stand noise?” he gushed. Don listened in dismay as Alan concocted a list of wild ideas to drive Melvin out. “We can’t do anything illegal, immoral, or dishonest,” he cautioned. Suddenly Alan’s stuffy shirt was looking more like a football jersey.
As the two men strategized, the children coaxed their father into telling his “train tracks” story. Alan began: “When I was 15, we lived on the west side of Provo. One night I was going to a friend’s house and needed to cross the train tracks. A train engine was idling just a few feet off the crossing. Boy, I could feel its big engines rumbling; they literally shook the ground. I stopped my bike. It wasn’t moving and the lights were off, so I decided it was safe to cross. I can imagine the engineers watching me. One of them probably poked the other in the ribs and said, “Watch this!” I was halfway across when all at once the big light went on and the horn blasted. I just about died! The engineers were probably rolling around, laughing, as they watched me jump on my ten-speed and tear off.
“A few years later,” he continued, “I owned a ‘61 Ford pickup. I’d found a huge police spotlight in a junkyard and had it mounted on top of the truck so I could hunt jackrabbits. Then I added an air tank and a diesel horn. Well, one night my friend and I backed my truck down a dark railroad crossing—and waited. My best friend’s cousin was the first one to come along. He only lived a few blocks away. Just as he started across the tracks in front of us—I think he was driving his dad’s Ford Falcon station wagon—we flipped on the light and hit the horn. All we could see of his face were teeth and eyeballs. After he recovered, he asked to join us. And, wouldn’t you know it, the next guy to come along was one of my father’s friends. He spun around in his old Dodge Dart and chased us all around the county. He couldn’t catch us, and finally gave up. I don’t know what he planned on doing to us if he’d caught us.”
Amid his children’s laughter, Alan went back to his scheming. One of his more plausible suggestions was to take the small compressor he kept in the garage to the apartment and blow pressurized air between two strips of plastic to create a horrific sound. Don chuckled, more at Alan himself than the wild pranks he proposed. After all, this was Alan, the dignified executive; Alan, the man who made his kids do everything by the rules—who now was teaching them how to drive someone crazy. He explained that, because of his standing in the community, he couldn’t possibly join in the fun—directly. But, if they were careful, he would allow Danny and Jake to spend a few hours helping. He’d pick the children up around ten.
Don, Jake, Danny and Christina eagerly headed out the door. “Don’t let anything happen to them,” Alan called out as Don toted the small compressor out behind him.
Don grinned back. “Not a chance.”
A German shepherd ambled into the opening, gazing out into the darkening shadows. The moon had not yet emerged from behind the peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. Each of the two men took a case hanging from their sides, removed a sophisticated piece of equipment and slipped it on their heads so they could see what Sig was looking at. He’d spotted a beautiful four-point buck, feeding some distance from “his” cattle.
The men waited and watched as the dog cautiously began to stalk the animal. Then they split up, each heading for the spot from which Sig had emerged. The dog alertly crept in and out of the edge of the willows, keeping close track of the animal’s movements. The buck would stop, sniff the air and listen, then put its head down to feed again. The wind was in Sig’s favor. He’d never seen such an animal before. The river was quieter there at its wide point of entry to the lake.
The men soon closed in on their quarry.
A rustle in the brush roused Stacey, who had alternately dozed off and awakened dozens of times that day. This time, however, was different—though he wasn’t coherent enough to know why. He was aware, though, that Sig was nowhere to be seen.
He managed to pull himself to a standing position. Then he put the whistle between his lips and blew the “come” command. For the moment, his mind had drifted back to reality. He could tell he was dehydrated; his lips were parched. He took the juice from the overcoat and slowly began to drink. Leaning against the tree for balance, he held it down. Sig still hadn’t returned. The brush rustled again, and suddenly Stacey was knocked to the ground. The intense pain in his side took his breath away. He could hear his attacker breathing in his ear as he crushed the breath out of him. It definitely was not Sig.
“Over here,” the man on top of him called out.
A second man bounded from the brush and joined the first. Stacey had no strength to fight. He lay helpless, his face pressed in the dirt, his hands and arms pinned under him. He tried desperately to free one arm so as to reach the weapon in the pocket of his coat. He’d use it, too. These men definitely were not peace officers.
It was then that he heard Sig’s deep, throaty growl from just beyond the edge of the trees. Both men heard it too. It took their focus from their captive as they drew their weapons and peered out in the direction of the sound. Sig’s growl was joined by another. In seconds, Stacey realized Sig was involved in a full-fledged dogfight.
One of his assailants leapt to his feet; both expected a vicious animal to come lunging out at them from the brush. The standing man gave instructions to the other to keep Stacey down, then he crept toward the dogs, his weapon drawn. By now the growls had evolved into a series of aggressive attacks.
Stacey, pretending to offer little resistance, inched his arm close enough to withdraw the captain’s gun through the coat lining. The man straddling him had become more concerned with the fact that his partner had not yet returned than with keeping Stacey down.
“Frank!” he called. No one answered. “Frank!” his voice boomed out again, simultaneously shifting his body weight. Stacey seized the opportunity. Propelling his shoulders up with his left hand, he partially rolled to his back, sending his assailant off balance. As the man toppled to the side, his knee jammed into Stacey’s broken ribs. Stacey let out a loud groan as he pulled the trigger. The man jerked sideways, then slumped down on top of him in a limp heap.
Stacey pushed him off, then quickly slipped the night-vision equipment from the man’s head and put it on his own. He heard a gunshot in the distance, followed by a brief yelp. The fighting stopped. Stacey was in no condition to take an aggressive stand, so he staggered behind a tree and waited.
Don and the children walked down the steps, unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Jake was the first to fire up the Nintendo. “Dad’s gone crazy,” he said with a grin, turning up the volume. Danny joined him in a game as Christina went to open the window. It was a party atmosphere.
In less than five minutes Melvin stalked out to his car and drove away. Christina gave Danny the thumbs up sign.
“Uncle Don, you try it,” Danny urged, waving the joystick.
“No. I’m not any good at those games...”
“Okay, you practice a few minutes with Jake while I get something to eat. I’ll adjust it to an easier level.”
“Now, you’ve got to get at least 255,000 points to beat me...” Jake began to explain. He moved over, making room for Don in front of the TV screen. In a few minutes, after Don was engrossed in the game, Danny and Christina slipped into the kitchen.
“We can’t sneak upstairs—they’ll see us,” she said. “Let’s start in the metal building out back.” Flashlight in hand, the two of them slipped out the front door and around the side of the house. The small metal shed sat a ways back from the house, mostly obscured from the road. Its walls sat on a row of flat cinder blocks laid at ground level. As they approached the shed, Danny noticed a lock. Already discouraged, he was ready to return to the safety of the apartment.
Christina reached out and tugged at the plastic hasp holding the lock in place. “Danny, the bolts aren’t even tight.” Then she added, “You’re not scared, are you?”
“I’m not scared,” was his quick reply. The two of them worked at the bolts and, in less than 30 seconds, the metal door creaked open. They entered and Danny pulled it shut behind them. Christina flashed her light around the small eight by ten foot structure. Tiny rays of light shot from the cracks as the beam catapulted across the walls and floors of the shed. They were standing on a row of concrete blocks. Weeds, the kind that only seem to grow in dark places, grew on each side. But, oddly enough, one side seemed to flourish, while the other side seemed dead. A narrow row of shelves lined each side of the shed, and a half-dozen boxes rested on an old pallet at the back. The name on each box, written in black marker, read “Leah.”
“Hmm!” Danny whispered. “I wonder who Leah is?”
Christina took a lid off one of the boxes. Inside were old clothes reminiscent of the fashion of five or six years before. She picked up the first item she saw, a sweater. Dust had settled in through holes cut out at the top of the box, creating thick, round spots on it. “This must have been his daughter’s,” she said, holding it up against her body. It was almost her size. Danny lifted up a shirt. A button fell off and bounced on the concrete blocks into the weeds.
“Shine the light down here,” he whispered, crouching to find where it had gone. Christina shone the light on the floor. “There it is.” He reached into the weeds and pulled. It seemed to have attached itself to something. He yanked a little harder. Christina knelt to get a better look. Earth and weeds began to lift as she realized the button Danny was pulling was sewn onto a sweater buried in the dirt. Both children turned and stared at each other. Danny turned loose of the button and jumped to his feet. Christina covered her mouth and held back a scream.
The children bolted out of the shed and slid the door shut. In silence, they crept back into the kitchen and sat down. Danny’s knees were weak, banging against each other under the table. His stomach churned. Christina wiped her sweaty palms on her pants as she swallowed hard.
“Don’t tell anyone until we decide what to do,” she finally said. “This could put him away forever. Swear you won’t tell.” Her cousin nodded without a word. His mind raced, thinking of what—or who— lay just under the soil.
“I won!” Don shouted from the other room. “I finally beat you!”
“Next time I’ll lower my handicap,” Jake warned. A horn honked in front. It was Alan, there to pick them up.
Danny slowly rose from the table. Christina ran to her room to retrieve her things.
“How did it go?” Alan asked as Jake climbed in the car.
“He left just a few minutes after we started,” Jake said triumphantly. “Uncle Don sucks at Bond, though.”
Alan flinched at the use of the word. “What?”
“Sorry.”
Christina started out the door with a small bag of her things. Don was right behind her. “Please come with us,” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to stay here by yourself. It’s not safe.”
“Don’t worry, ‘Tina. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” He scooted her toward the car.
“Be careful, Daddy. You never know what he might do.” She watched him close the door as they drove away, then stole a knowing glance at Danny.
Struggling to stay focused, Stacey hunched up against a tree, expecting the other assailant to return at any moment. The bushes rustled. Then the figure of a dog limped into the small clearing. “Sig,” Stacey whispered. Sig raised his head, recognizing his master’s voice. Still lying on the ground, the wounded man moaned in pain. His half-conscious stir gave Stacey hope that he wasn’t dead.
Sig dragged himself over to where Stacey hid. A massive wound was gaping open like a torn paper bag from Sig’s upper left side. Stacey could tell that it wasn’t from a gunshot. It must have been sustained in the dog fight. Blood oozed from several spots, quickly forming in a pool on the ground beneath the dog. Stacey fought back the sickness and nausea that floundered in his stomach. It was no use. Turning his pained body to the side, he retched violently.
The pain of his broken side was almost too much. I can’t let go, he thought, struggling to remain conscious. When he felt slightly more steady, he removed the coat and vest. Occasionally glancing around to see if anyone was coming, he slowly lifted his shirt and removed the tightly wound bandages. Without the pressure they supplied, it felt like his insides were going to fall out.
Sig lay panting on the ground. Stacey reached out and folded the flap of skin back over the wound, exposing the dog’s ribs. Sig winced. Sig, turning his head weakly, licked Stacey’s hand. At the “stand” command, Sig struggled to his feet and let Stacey wrap two of the three bandages around his chest.
A groan again came from the man lying on the ground. Taking a chance, and feeling compelled to help, Stacey hobbled into the clearing and turned him over, revealing both an entry wound in the abdomen and a gaping exit wound at his lower back. He removed the man’s jacket. Keys and a cell phone fell from the pocket—items which Stacey slipped into his own. Then he tore the man’s shirt into two pieces and placed one on his stomach and the other on his back. Spying a gun laying nearby in the dirt, Stacey picked it up and tossed it in the trees. In his sickly state, he had no use for it.
The smell of blood and bowel rose in the air like a noxious cloud, making Stacey sicker as he continued to cover and wrap the bleeding man. Several times he resisted the urge to throw up. Rolling the man side to side, he managed to tighten the bandage around his wounds. The urge now too strong, he again began to dry heave. This time, without support, the pain was unbearable. He collapsed onto the ground, unconscious.
Barker and Weeks had learned next to nothing about either Bingham or Briggs. It was almost as if their personal histories had begun when they’d moved to town. Detective Green, from Virginia, was helpful when Weeks had called him at home. He’d carefully reviewed the case and reported that Oswald was indeed the original investigating officer. Oswald had quit the force five years ago, only a few days after the father of a girl killed in his precinct was accused of molesting and murdering his own daughter. The father had been arrested and finally was now going to trial. Weeks convinced Green to help locate Oswald so he could explain the case in greater detail.
It was learned that Green had tried to call Stacey less than two hours after his initial call. Unable to reach him on his cell phone, he’d called the office. That’s when Bingham had taken the call, telling him that Stacey was suspected of selling drugs from the evidence room, and that if he heard from him again not to release any information. It had been a bonus when the caller ID recorded the address and phone number to Stacey’s home, so many states away. Green wanted to know if they had Stacey in custody yet.
By eleven-thirty both men were convinced that they’d hit a dead end and decided to call it a night. Barker, however, needed to do one more thing before he left. He watched Weeks drive away, then found an empty box and began the painful task of emptying Deek’s desk.
Amber crept out of her bedroom and down the stairs. She still held out hope that Rick had heard of the false alarm at her school and knew what it meant. Quietly she tiptoed through the garage and up the stairs—unaware that her father was sitting on a chair behind the cars, waiting, hoping he would see his son. Inside the upstairs room, she waited in the dark.
Preparing for bed, Don decided the scare tactics he’d used on Melvin were the best defense and offense he’d ever used. He’d blocked the inside door that led from the upper part of the house, keeping the front door unobstructed in case he needed to exit in a hurry.
Shortly after turning out the light and settling into bed, he heard Melvin drive in. Only minutes later, footsteps and the sound of things being moved around above his bedroom jolted him from his half-conscious sleep. Then all heck broke loose–it sounded like Melvin was cutting wood above his bed or sawing a hole through the floor. The vibrations pulsed down through the ceiling. Don rolled out of bed, both out of curiosity and just in case the ceiling collapsed.
Upstairs, Melvin stood with one foot on a board, which lay on an upside-down five-gallon bucket in the middle of the room. He’d been contemplating how he could get his pesky tenants out of the apartment. Don was explosive and dangerous, and Christina posed a serious security concern. Outside his computer expertise, he recognized his ability to reason was limited. And going to the police was out of the question. The only thing he could think to do was to drive them crazy until they left.
And so there he was, leaning over a board with a rusty old handsaw, drawing it back and forth across the board, and hoping to keep Don awake—without ever again getting within his reach.
Don moved to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Melvin giggled to himself, getting a kick out of what he imagined Don was doing down below. Don swore; Melvin laughed aloud as the grating sounds resonated through the uninsulated floor.
Stacey regained consciousness to find the wounded man gone—and the night gear missing. Sig lay motionless at the edge of the clearing. He struggled to his knees to see if his police companion was alive. Sig, still breathing, ever so slightly raised his head to acknowledge Stacey’s presence. Stacey checked the pocket of the overcoat and found the keys and phone where he’d left them. He draped the coat over his cold torso, staggered to his feet, and went to carry his dying dog from the brush. He knew he needed to find help before it was too late.
Stumbling from the trees, they started across the field. Tripping over a root, he fell to his knees. There sprawled in the grass before him, lay the meanest-looking Rottweiler he’d ever seen. Stacey laid Sig down and took the penlight from his pocket. The dog, motionless, had taken a bullet to the head.
Once more he lurched to his feet, Sig in his arms, and plowed toward the silhouette of a vehicle parked on the shoulder of the highway, several hundred yards ahead.
Amber, weary of waiting, soon lay peacefully in the room above the garage. Midnight came and went; Rick never showed up.
Mr. Stacey climbed the stairs to find his daughter sleeping on the bed. He drew the covers up and around her shoulders, kissed her goodnight, and retired to his own room.