Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 26

He twisted his hands around the steering wheel. An overwhelming sense of being up s.h.i.+t creek without a paddle was sinking into his brain.

Had his boss let him go?

He picked up his phone and called again. Nothing. He flung the phone on the pa.s.senger seat.

Maybe the mess in Eastern Oregon was making his boss uncomfortable. Had he already found out about the baker and teen boy? Had he decided Gerald was expendable?

Was he being left to sink or swim?

Gerald had always known this day was a possibility. And he was not G.o.dd.a.m.ned expendable. If his boss was trying to distance himself from Gerald, he was in for a big surprise. Gerald had recordings. Video recordings and voice recordings of almost every phone call he'd ever had with the man that discussed Chris Jacobs or Daniel Brody. Recordings that would crush him. And destroy everything the man treasured. If his boss was letting him sink, he wasn't sinking alone.

He dialed the boss's cell again. Voice mail.

His gut burned.

The pa.s.senger in his trunk pounded with her feet. Thank goodness it was dark and there was virtually no traffic on the highway. He'd pull over and check her soon. As long as she kept kicking, it meant she wasn't dead.

It'd been a fast decision. After seeing Jamie Jacobs on TV and not knowing where to find Chris Jacobs, he figured he'd go back to the woman. At the very least, he had a gorgeous woman at his disposal. At the best, he had a lead to her brother.

When he'd seen Michael Brody stroll out of the bed-and-breakfast and down the street to the diner, he decided he had a few minutes. He circled the block once, spotted the gate in the alley, and searched for the phone number for the bed-and-breakfast. He'd planned to simply pose as her brother and tell her he needed some money. Even if she'd refused to give him money, he guessed she'd at least want to see him in person. It'd been obvious they didn't see each other. But when she asked about Brian, he'd known he had the perfect bait.

He'd hit her hard with the ax handle.

At first, he'd worried that he'd hit too hard. She'd collapsed instantly at his feet, a limp puddle of woman. But Jamie's pulse had stayed strong, so he tied her hands and dumped her in the trunk.

He'd done that once. Hit a victim so hard that he hadn't woken up. That'd been a waste of time and effort. He'd added the body to the hole in the woods along with his other victims. It'd been such a great hiding site.

A few miles out of Demming, he'd stopped and tied Jamie's feet and taped her mouth. She'd still been unconscious but breathing fine.

Some m.u.f.fled screams came from the trunk, and he turned up the radio.

He could still feel the vibrations from her kicking in the trunk. It'd been nearly thirty minutes since he'd bound her feet. He s.h.i.+fted in his seat. It had to be hot in the trunk. A corpse in his trunk wasn't going to do him any good. Maybe he should check the temperature in there. He'd been blasting the air conditioner, but that wasn't going to stop Jamie from overheating.

The center console...

Ha! Gerald cheered up. He could access the trunk through the center of the backseat. If he lowered the console in back, that would put some cold air circulation into the trunk. A road sign indicated five miles until a rest stop. He'd find a quiet corner and check on his pa.s.senger.

Jamie chose that second to go silent.

The car's speed crept up to seventy-five. He'd be at the rest stop in a few minutes, and he could- Red and blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror.

What the f.u.c.k?

Gerald's brain circuitry hit overtime. They'd found him. They'd seen him grab her. They knew he'd killed the children. They knew he'd killed the Mexican and the teenager.

His brain wouldn't stop firing off the panic messages. He looked down the deserted highway, and a brief thought of outrunning the cop car dashed through his head. Impossible. Those vehicles have amazing engines.

He studied his mirror. Only one police car. And he had been speeding a minute ago. He slowed and turned on his blinker.

Pull over. Be polite.

He wished he was armed. He'd left the Jacobs gun at the teen boy's death scene. Usually he carried two handguns, but tonight he had none. If he had to, he could take this officer down once he got out of the car.

Gravel crackled under his tires as he left the pavement and pulled to a stop. For a brief second, he thought the officer was going to pa.s.s him. Instead, the navy-blue car stopped close behind him. The ultimate in dorky hats was visible through the winds.h.i.+eld. State police. No one else wore those wide-brimmed hats.

His trunk was silent.

What if she'd kicked out a light? Was there a foot hanging out the back of his car? Sweat poured off his temples. Gerald lowered his window and reached over to the glove box for his car-rental agreement. He looked in the rearview mirror. The trooper was still in his seat. Probably running his plates and calling in his location. That was okay. It would come back as a rental. And it didn't matter if he ran this driver's license. This ident.i.ty was clean. He didn't even have a speeding ticket.

Until now. Hopefully, that was all he was getting.

The trooper was suddenly at his window. "Evening sir. License and registration please."

Gerald handed over the items. "I was going a little fast back there, wasn't I? It's a rental car. Here're the papers." He listened hard for any sounds coming from the trunk. It was silent.

Was Jamie pa.s.sed out? Or dead? He needed to check the trunk. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his ears.

The trooper looked over his license. "No, Mr. Bennett. I pulled you over for cell phone use. You pa.s.sed me a few miles back while talking on your cell phone."

Relief, amus.e.m.e.nt, anger, and disbelief shot through Gerald. "Seriously? The call didn't even go through."

The trooper's lips twitched. "Well sir, the law doesn't care if you didn't get connected or if someone hung up on you. I saw your phone at your ear. I'll be right back." He paused, taking a sharper look at Gerald. "You alright, sir?"

Gerald touched his cheekbone where the Mexican had whacked him with the rebar. "Pretty nasty, isn't it? Dropped my bar and weights on my face while bench-pressing today. That's the last time I don't use a spotter."

Disbelief crossed the trooper's face. "No spotter? Seriously? What were you thinking?"

Gerald tried to look ashamed. "I know. It was stupid. I figured since the weight wasn't too bad, I wouldn't ask anyone, but then my hand slipped."

The trooper shook his head and went back to his vehicle with Gerald's ID.

Gerald rested his head against his steering wheel. That could have gone far worse.

And a cell phone violation? He was being pulled over for using his cell phone? He gave a strangled laugh, suddenly lightheaded. Holy f.u.c.k.

If only the trooper knew what he'd left behind in Demming. And what he had in his trunk.

The trooper reappeared at his window and handed back his ID and paperwork. "I'm going to have to issue you a citation for the cell phone use. We're in the middle of a statewide crackdown because people aren't taking the law seriously. Get yourself a hands-free unit. Those are currently legal."

Gerald silently took the paperwork. Don't say a word. What he wanted to do was cram the ticket in the trooper's face. But he was getting a free pa.s.s. Take the ticket and get to the other side of the state. "I'll look into it."

The trooper touched the brim of his hat. "Drive safely, sir."

Gerald watched the trooper walk back to his car. He put on his blinker and pulled out onto the open highway. How had the trooper seen his phone? The sun had been down for an hour.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

He kept an eye on the rearview mirror. The trooper's patrol car hadn't budged. It got smaller and smaller as Gerald increased his speed. Just before he couldn't see it anymore, it did an abrupt turn and headed in the opposite direction.

He looked at his ticket. One hundred forty-two dollars for talking on a cell phone?

p.i.s.sed and steaming about the fine, two miles later, Gerald took the rest stop exit.

Deserted.

He parked as far away as possible from the little bathroom buildings. He sat in the driver's seat, scanning the rest stop for a few minutes. Even though he'd watched the trooper head in the opposite direction, he half expected him to reappear. And not be alone. After the rest stop stayed quiet, he stepped out of the car and stretched. Every joint hurt. It'd been a h.e.l.l of a long day.

First, the empty Jacobs house, then the old Mexican, the kid from the gas station, Jamie Jacobs, and then a f.u.c.king traffic ticket.

He stood behind his car, eyeing the trunk. He examined the taillights. Both looked intact. If she'd been kicking at them, it didn't show. He snorted, remembering his fear of a foot hanging out, visible to the trooper. He bent over the trunk, feeling the heat radiate from the metal against his face, listening.

All silent.

Ax in hand, he pushed the trunk release b.u.t.ton on his key fob.

Jamie lay motionless. Her hair and s.h.i.+rt were soaked with sweat. He shoved at her legs with the ax handle, and her eyes opened. Thank G.o.d, the b.i.t.c.h is still breathing. She stared at him, her gaze studying his face and taking mental notes. She didn't move.

"You hot?" he asked.

Her eyebrows narrowed.

Probably a stupid question.

"I'll make you a deal."

The eyebrows rose a bit.

"Knock off the G.o.dd.a.m.ned kicking, and I'll open the center console area. That'll let some of the air-conditioning into the trunk. Deal?"

Jamie blinked and gave one short nod.

"Yeah, I didn't think you were too stupid. You're no good to me barbecued or roasted."

She was silent.

He considered giving her some water, but that'd mean taking the tape off her mouth, and he didn't feel like acting like a nursemaid. She'd be okay without water for a few more hours. The air-conditioning should make a difference.

He poked at the inside of the trunk where the lights connected. All solid and covered up. She wasn't going to be able to damage them, no matter how hard she kicked.

Gerald slammed the trunk, opened the rear driver-side door, and yanked at the console that was tucked into the backseat. It moved forward. He could feel hot air from the trunk move into the cooler air of the car. He pointed the two wimpy rear vents at the center of the backseat.

He got back in the driver's seat and headed back to the highway. He hadn't seen a single vehicle in fifteen minutes. He took a long swallow from his bottle of water, sighed, and wiped at his mouth. He was gonna be driving most of the night.

It was a long drive back to the other side of the Cascade Mountains. Gerald was aiming a little farther south this time. He wasn't going back to Portland. He was headed toward home. Salem, the state's capital. Salem was his comfort zone. The bunker had been closer to Salem, and his job was primarily in that city.

He took the highway turnoff toward a mountain range pa.s.s. Hopefully, he'd hear from his boss soon. He wasn't going to try calling while driving this time.

To Michael's relief, Spencer stepped out of the Luna County car. Nothing against the deputies of Luna County, but Spencer was the one with the brains. The rest seemed to be a bunch of local recruits who stood around a lot. One deputy tailed his boss. Hove opened his cruiser door but sat in the driver's seat, talking on his cell.

"Whatcha got?" Spencer asked as he strode up the walk. He nodded at Chris. "Jacobs. 'Bout time you turned up. I've got a couple of questions for you about Juan's place."

"Right now we've got to find Jamie. I know the Ghostman grabbed her," Chris said.

"Who?" Spencer scowled.

"I called him the Ghostman. Same guy who held me captive as a kid. Freaking ghostly, white-skin-colored a.s.shole."

"Covered in ink now," Michael added.

"Mr. Tattoo is the Ghostman. Got it." Spencer's expression said he thought both of them were slightly nuts. "Who the f.u.c.k is he really?"

Michael shook his head. "Dunno."

Hove stepped forward. "According to your Detective Callahan, he's a former s.e.xual predator known as Gary Hinkes. But the guy has vanished from the face of the earth. There's no driver's license, no tax records, nothing. He was arrested in the late eighties for some s.e.x crimes, but no one can find any records. He was also arrested in conjunction with a murder of a Portland woman but went to prison on a lesser charge. There hasn't been a peep from him since he got out."

"Where are the records from the trial?" Spencer asked.

"Gone."

"And from his time in prison?"

"He was there for two months. Any sc.r.a.p of paper relating to it has vanished."

Chris looked at Michael. "How does that happen?"

Michael's stomach thrummed. "Someone knows someone with the right connections."

"Well, the people who interacted with him shouldn't have disappeared...I hope. What about the warden from when he was in prison? He remember him?" Spencer crossed his arms on his chest.

Hove shook his head. "Retired. And he was only there two months. No one can tell us s.h.i.+t."

"How about the judge at his trial? Or his lawyer or prosecutor? Someone has to remember something besides Fielding. It was a f.u.c.king murder trial."

"The detectives in Portland are looking into that and some other possibilities. They'll find someone who knows what he's doing these days. Now, what do you got inside?" asked Hove.

"Absolutely nothing," Michael answered, but he waved the cops into the bed-and-breakfast. Michael was ready to crawl out of his skin. Standing around and waiting for the police wasn't how he operated. He liked action. He craved action. He needed to DO something.

But right now he had no f.u.c.king information to move on.

Chuck greeted the group of men and then watched them pound up the stairs. Spencer's deputy stayed back to question Chuck. Hove and Spencer made a quick survey of the bedroom and bathroom, identical to Michael's sweep. Hove scanned the backyard.

"Where's the gate go?" he asked Michael.

"Alley behind the property."

"Look in the alley?"

"No." Michael's mouth dried up. s.h.i.+t. He started to dash out of the room.