Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 8

Michael exchanged a look with the cops. "Someone knew your schedule. He thought he knew exactly how long he had. You must have surprised him before he could take off with anything."

Jamie shook her head. "He wasn't looking for valuables. He was looking for Chris."

Electric shocks shot through Michael's nerves. "What?"

The uniform taking notes said, "He kept asking where her brother was."

Michael clutched at Jamie's arm, whirling her to face him. "He wanted Chris? He said that?"

She nodded. "He said Chris would remember his cigarette burns. He's the one, Michael, he's the one who hurt Chris. He must be the one who killed all those children...and your brother."

Daniel. Michael eased his grip on her arm and rubbed at it in apology. His mind felt ready to explode. The man who killed Daniel is still here. I will find him.

"Sorry, princess." He turned to Byers. "You've got to contact Detective Callahan in OSP's Major Crimes."

The cop's eyes narrowed. "Major Crimes? Why? We've called out one of our robbery and a.s.sault detectives."

Michael shook his head. "You've got to contact Callahan. This is related to a murder case he's caught."

Byers glanced at Jamie for confirmation. She nodded, still silent. "What the h.e.l.l?" Byers asked. "Everyone out. Out of the house now." He stepped closer to Michael. "You better know what you're talking about. Why the f.u.c.k didn't the two of you say something to start with?" His glare included Jamie.

Michael's hackles rose. "Because I didn't know till she mentioned her brother, and she was in too much shock from fighting for her G.o.dd.a.m.ned life." He challenged Byers's stare.

"I'm sorry-" Jamie started.

"Not your fault. Not your fault at all." He rubbed his hands over her shoulders. "Did you get a look at him?"

She nodded and then started to s.h.i.+ver.

"Christ. Let's get out in the sun. You got a coat you can grab?"

"Don't take anything out of the house yet," Byers interjected. "I've got a Mylar blanket in the car she can use."

Jamie's teeth started to chatter.

"Jesus," said Michael. "Outside. Now."

She couldn't get warm. She was wrapped in two Mylar blankets and in full sun, lying flat on her back in the middle of her front yard. Michael had wedged a backpack from his truck under her feet and knelt by her head, rubbing at her hands.

"Just a little shock, princess. You'll feel better in a few minutes."

"Why do you keep calling me princess? And make them go away." Her teeth still chattered as she glared at the circle of uniforms staring down at her. Wasn't she conspicuous enough? What were her neighbors thinking?

"Back off," Michael directed. The cops obeyed. "Princess popped in my head the first time I saw you. Actually, I thought you looked like a queen. Something about the way you carry yourself. You've got a regal bearing. Not snooty or stuck-up. Just...calm, kind, and self-confident."

Regal? "I'd call it my princ.i.p.al posture. Makes the kids listen to me." Her d.a.m.ned body wouldn't stop s.h.i.+vering. "I can't get warm."

Michael leaned closer, green eyes concerned.

Jamie blew out a long breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated on making her muscles relax. The s.h.i.+vering dropped to short spurts, down from continuous attacks.

"That's better," he said softly. "Do you think you can talk now?"

She opened her eyes. The concern in his gaze touched her deep in her chest. She nodded. "Sit me up."

He shook his head. "Not yet." He gestured for Byers to come back.

"How much description of the guy did she give you already?"

Byers consulted his flip notebook. "Caucasian male, probably six foot one or six foot two, medium build, late forties or early fifties, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, navy light running pants, long-sleeved white T-s.h.i.+rt, tattoos on backs of both wrists."

Jamie nodded in agreement. "I think the tattoos went up his sleeves. Like they covered his arms. I could see faint patterns through the material of his s.h.i.+rt."

"Probably why he was wearing long sleeves in the middle of July," Michael commented. "Wonder if the long pants were for the same reason?"

"More tats?" Byers asked.

Michael shrugged. "Possibly."

Jamie'd had enough of being on her back and having people speak down to her. "Sit me up."

Michael gently pulled her into a sitting position and steadied her with a hand on her back. And left it there. Its heat soaking into her skin felt heavenly.

"I don't recall getting a glimpse of his legs or even ankles." Jamie mentally reviewed her struggles with the a.s.sailant. "But he looked weird."

"Define weird." Michael's lips curved up on the right.

She paused. "His eyes weren't right. The color seemed fake."

"Lenses?" Byers asked.

She nodded slowly. "Maybe. It was the same with the hair. The color seemed forced. Like a home dye job."

"Christ. Vain," Michael said wryly. "Can't handle a little gray hair?"

"Maybe his hair was actually really dark, almost black. And he lightened it to throw her off. Same with the eyes. Maybe they're brown or hazel," Byers theorized. "You feel positive about the colors being changed? I mean, I had no idea my wife's been coloring her hair for the last five years until her sister mentioned it. How can you tell?"

Uncertainty crept into Jamie's brain. Maybe she was wrong. "Women look at hair. Most men don't. It's just a gut instinct with this guy." She fumbled about for a way to explain. "You asked for his hair color. I pictured it and stated what I remembered, but something bugged me about my answer. I think it didn't feel accurate because I'd imperceptibly picked up that it was colored. And that didn't register till a minute ago."

Both men stared at her. Byers's pencil hung motionless above his notebook.

"Women can tell these things," she a.s.serted.

Byers recited as he wrote in his notebook: "Female instinct says hair colored and colored contacts."

Gerald crammed his latex gloves in his pants pocket. That hadn't gone well.

Rephrase that. It'd been a f.u.c.king disaster.

Sitting in his car in the McDonald's parking lot, he sucked on a c.o.ke and took inventory of his injuries. His legs were going to be bruised for a week, and he had a finger sprain that'd swollen to twice its size. d.a.m.n thing had better not be broken.

Christ, she'd fought hard.

He'd never had a woman fight so hard. Surprisingly, in the past it'd been the women who put up the biggest fights. For some reason the men hadn't. Maybe he'd simply picked men who didn't mind being victims. The women had all minded. For prost.i.tutes, they'd p.i.s.sed off easily when they realized things weren't going as planned.

Jacobs had surprised the c.r.a.p out of him when she returned early from her run. From his observations, this woman never varied her routine. He should have left. Attacking her hadn't been the smartest move, but he'd been frustrated with his empty search of the house. And his "interrogation" hadn't accomplished anything either.

Except that the Jacobs woman had seen his face.

It didn't matter.

He bit at the inside of his cheek. It didn't matter. He kept his hair colored and his real eye color covered up. Maybe it was time for a change? Darken the hair a bit? Eyes too? He had every contact lens color available. He usually stuck to nondescript blues and greens. The people he worked with never noticed that his eye color slightly varied some days. Lots of people's eyes normally do that.

No f.u.c.king way was he telling his boss that she'd seen him.

And he still didn't know where Chris Jacobs was. He'd found nothing in the house. No addresses, no mail, no pictures. Nothing that indicated she had a brother.

If she hadn't said she didn't know where Chris was living, he'd almost think the guy was dead. People don't vanish. There's always a record, somewhere.

Now what?

Angry pale jade eyes filled his brain. She'd been scared, but determination had also shone from those eyes. Jamie Jacobs was quite a specimen. She was tall and lean and fit. No spare fat on that woman's body. He could still feel her muscles under his fingertips. And her long, glossy dark hair. She reminded him of her brother a little bit. Chris Jacobs had been tall and lanky. Well, he'd grown tall and lanky during his two years. To start with, he'd been kind of a pudgy kid. At the end, both boys had been incredibly thin. Gerald had found it was easier to control them if they didn't have much energy. He kept their calorie intake at a minimum.

How they both had managed to escape was a mystery.

Their escape was a personal affront to him. A score he'd wanted to settle for a long time. No one else had ever humiliated him like that. Not since he was a teen.

He'd been visiting the boys about once a week before they vanished. His day job was a nine-to-five requirement, and sometimes he was simply too tired to make the long drive to visit the boys. Truth be told, just thinking about his captives in their prison was enough mental fantasy fuel to get him to the weekend. He'd kept people before. Adults. Both men and women. People he'd found on the streets of Portland or Salem who seemed like they wouldn't be readily missed.

Disposable people.

Male or female didn't matter to him too much. Both were useful. Both served the needs he had. He'd been surprised to find that almost-teen boys worked as well. The younger children he'd s.n.a.t.c.hed were a waste of time. He'd disposed of them quickly. But the older boys...that had been different.

He closed his eyes. When he was younger, boys had been the enemy. They hit him, kicked him, spit on him, and called him names. Girls had simply looked the other way. When he was thirteen he'd fought back. Bruce had been one of the worst bullies. He and his buddies had been taunting Gerald on the bus. It was his usual daily ride from h.e.l.l. When they'd got off the bus, Bruce's mouth hadn't stopped. As they walked past the apartment garbage dumpsters, Gerald snapped. He remembered seeing red, feeling his anger bleed into rage. He'd dropped his backpack, grabbed the gate to the dumpsters, and swung it into Bruce's face. Wailing, Bruce dropped to his knees, his hands covering the blood that dripped from his nose.

And Gerald felt the rush. The rush of pleasure and adrenaline and high that came from the dominance. He'd stood over the groveling boy, his heart pounding, and was instantly addicted.

It'd changed his life.

It'd awakened a bloodl.u.s.t he'd never dreamed existed. The sight of the boy in pain from his action was energizing. And it proved that he had the ability to take control.

It was better to be the executor than the victim.

In the bunker, one of the kidnapped boys had fought back immediately. He couldn't recall which one. But it'd been eye-opening. The rest of the children had cowered and annoyed him. But the older two boys had shown fight.

He'd kept the boys.

He would have never believed boys could do that for him as an adult if it hadn't been for a phone call twenty years ago from the prosecutor.

He hadn't seen the county prosecutor in two years. The prosecutor had dropped several of the charges pending against him when the police couldn't produce key evidence. He'd sweated during the hearing, knowing full well the police had collected plenty of evidence that proved he'd been present at Sandra Edge's murder. They didn't have proof that his hands had touched her, but they definitely had proof that he'd been in the room with her and his buddy, Lee.

But then the blood and trace evidence from the sheets and carpets went missing. Not just a little bit of evidence, a lot of it. All the important parts were completely gone.

The prosecutor scared him. He'd been a sharp, intense, and intelligent man. Gerald had firmly believed he was going to prison for a very long time. Instead, he served a few months on a much lesser charge.

He'd gotten away with accessory to murder.

Lee ended up getting the murder rap. Which he'd deserved. He'd been the one who'd actually finished strangling Sandra, and he was stupid enough to admit it.

For two years, Gerald had stressed, waiting to hear that the evidence had turned up in a dark corner of a storage room somewhere. Instead, when the phone call came, the message and the person who made the call were unexpected.

Yes, the evidence was still in existence. No, it hadn't been lost. Yes, the evidence would stay away from the courts if Gerald would do him a favor.

"What kind of favor?" he'd asked.

"I need a kid taken care of."

A kid?

The former prosecutor had gone on to say he was fully aware of Gerald's role in Sandra's murder.

"Why me?"

"Because I know what you're capable of. And if you don't, you'll be in prison for the rest of your life."

"And after I take care of this for you?"

There'd been a long pause on the phone. "I might have a permanent job for you."

Gerald had been interested in the job. He'd done it well for over two decades now and wasn't about to let his employer down again. He knew when he'd kept the boys that his employer wasn't going to be happy, so he didn't tell him. His boss had been royally p.i.s.sed that so many children had been affected when only one needed attention.

Gerald had shrugged. "I handled it the way I saw best. You needed fast action and you got it. No witnesses to anything. Plus, it confuses the motive. With so many kids gone, who was the primary target? Or was there a ma.s.s target? It'll keep the police scratching their heads for years."

After that his boss had no complaints about his job. He'd been impressed for two years when no evidence of the missing children had been found. No sign of the bus or the driver anywhere. His boss had never asked for details about how he'd accomplished the feat.

Then Chris Jacobs had walked out of the woods. Half dead, no memory, and miles from the underground bunker.

His boss had nearly blown a gasket. But when he learned of the boy's brain damage, he relaxed a bit. At that point, he grilled Gerald on the fates of the other children and then relaxed a bit more.

Gerald had been crazy to hang on to the two boys for as long as he did, but they'd fueled his soul in a way that adults never did.

Now Jamie Jacobs was proving to be a challenge.

He watched the line of vehicles snaking through the drive-through, reliving the events of that morning. Jamie was the type of woman who made men turn around and watch as she walked by. He hadn't been with a woman in over a month now, and he could still feel the silkiness of her skin from this morning. He s.h.i.+fted in his seat.

He needed to get laid.

He had a list of phone numbers of women who weren't too expensive. d.a.m.n it. Every woman on that list belonged in Walmart, and he was craving Saks Fifth Avenue.