Page 129 of Blood Moon

“Well…” She paused as though still indecisive, and then said, “Remember we told you about the missing girl in Galveston having a red crescent moon tattoo?”

“Larissa… something?”

“Yes. The suspect they have in custody in Jackson has the same tattoo.” She let that settle, then said quickly, “I apologize for rushing off, but I’ve got other calls to make. If you find something, please let me know immediately. Goodbye for now.”

She disconnected, then slumped with relief.

John said, “You were brilliant. Let’s go.”

They bade Mutt a quick goodbye and started for the camo garage, thrashing through the woods. John’s phone rang. He didn’t stop but answered on speaker.

Mitch said, “She deserves an Oscar. Y’all heading out?”

“Yes,” John said. “Where are we going?”

“From the fishing camp, head northeast. He’s southwest of New Orleans, actually between you and the city proper.”

“That’s where the college is located. He must live near the campus.”

“On Cypress Street. I’ll head that way,” Mitch said. “If he leaves his house, I’ll know it and can track him.”

Beth asked, “Will I have to keep calling him?”

“No. The stingray will ping whether or not his phone is in use. I’ll track you both and let you know if you’re closing in on him or getting farther away.”

John said, “Thanks, Mitch.”

“You bet. And, John, forget doing penance. That’s your guy, and he needs to get got.”

After he disconnected, Beth said, “He sounded so certain.”

“He is. The professor was playing you. From the start, he’s been laughing up his sleeve at us for contacting him and asking his help to catch the bad guy.”

“But he called you about the numerology.”

“A game. Maybe there is something to the double letters in the girls’ names, but he might have fed us that as a red herring. It’s obvious to me now that there’s been a wink-wink behind every word out of his mouth. He’s a trickster, a textbook sociopath.”

“I think so, too. But I shudder to think how this will end if we’re wrong about him.”

“I shudder to think how it will end if we’re right.”

Tom Barker stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He took a swig of vodka from the glass he’d left on the rim of the sink. He was using the guest room bath in order to prevent his wife from waking up and asking questions about the new goose egg on the side of his head and why he kept tenderly cupping his genitals. He hadn’t arrived at any answers that didn’t stretch plausibility to the limit.

He’d silenced his cell phone, but he heard the buzz of its vibration against the tiled countertop. At this hour of the morning, he should sound as though the call had woken him up, shouldn’t he?

“This is Barker,” he snarled, “and whoever this is, it had better be about something important.”

The caller identified himself as Officer Clarkson. He was a rookie, none too bright, Barker’s favorite kind.

“Were you asleep, sir?”

“Was. Not anymore. Why are you calling?”

“It’s about John Bowie.”

Tom plopped down onto the toilet lid, having forgotten the residual pain in his nether region. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth. Even though fresh from the shower, a sheen of sweat broke out on his torso.

With a dismissive inflection, he said, “Bowie? I fired him. He’s out.”