Page 38 of Closer Than You Know (Vera Boyett #2)

Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department

Thornton Taylor Parkway, Fayetteville, 12:00 p.m.

Three hours.

Vee had been out of communication for three hours.

Bent stared at the maps spread across the conference table. All area grids were being searched. County and city law enforcement personnel as well as civilian volunteers were covering ground as quickly as possible. Bent had issued new BOLOs for Vee, Eve, and Patrick Solomon, as well as the news van from Memphis. Everyone who had watched the news or listened to the radio had been alerted and asked to call in any sightings or suspicious activity. But it didn’t feel like enough.

Worry gnawed at him. He had called in a favor in hopes of getting air support. If they could get a couple of copters in the air, it would help, but that took time.

They might not have time.

Fury burned hot in his gut, and he barely held it inside.

He fisted his hands, braced them against the table to prevent roaring with a mixture of rage and anguish. Worse, the bodies of Patricia Patton and her cameraman, Michael Brown, had been found. Solomon, Vera, and Eve were long gone. The abandoned mobile home where they had been held hadn’t been lived in for a decade or more. There were no utilities at all on that narrow side road. Bent and his deputies had driven right past those damned rusty structures the first time because they were looking for a vehicle.

The only blood discovered inside was the pools that had leaked from the two victims left behind. As gutted as he felt for the reporter and her cameraman, Bent hoped that no other blood meant Vera and Eve were uninjured.

The handgun Vee had taken from her house was found on the ground outside, so she was no longer armed.

Where the hell are you?

Bent straightened, set his hands on his hips, and kicked aside the emotions that would do nothing but splinter his attention. He needed his full attention focused on finding them.

All they had to do was locate the van, and maybe, just maybe, they would find Vera and Eve.

Unless the bastard changed vehicles.

Jones appeared on the other side of the table. “I’ve got a call in to the news station,” he told Bent. “I’m hoping they have trackers on all their vehicles. It’s Sunday, so not everyone is at the station. As soon as they have an answer from someone in management, they’ll call me back.”

“Thanks. That was a good call.” When Jones had first arrived, Bent had wanted nothing more than to send him straight back to Memphis ... but now he was glad to have the help.

Jones scrubbed a hand over his face. Like Bent, he hadn’t slept much in the past two days. The weight of uncertainty and a load of fear were bearing down heavy.

“They’ve interrogated Dr. Solomon repeatedly,” Jones said, “and he’s still giving us nothing new. Part of me wants to say he probably doesn’t know more. But this just doesn’t feel right.” He looked from the maps on the table to Bent. “The whole situation is off somehow.”

“You believe he’s protecting his grandson again?” Bent wished he could have five minutes alone with the bastard. He still might not spill whatever he knew, but he would be sorry he knew it.

“I think we would all be fools not to believe that’s the case. Not to mention this situation gives him one final hurrah—even if only vicariously through his grandson.” He exhaled a big breath. “But if we put that aside and focus only on the grandson, this is what we know about how he operated as part of the Messenger—or at least how he operated more than a dozen years ago.” Jones stared at the maps, went quiet.

Bent waited for him to go on, his nerves firing erratically, urging him to act. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed to stand still.

“He watched each victim for months,” Jones said, his voice sounding quiet and distant, as if he were remembering the events far too vividly. “When he made his move, he was quick. In and out. No evidence left behind. No witnesses. Ever. He kept his victims for as little as a couple of days to as many as five or six.”

“Any particular reason,” Bent asked, “as to why he kept some longer than others?” He had reviewed everything he could get his hands on about the Messenger, but to hear more details from someone who had lived the case would be far more useful.

“The profile created by the FBI,” Jones explained, “suggested this is typical for torture-murderers. It’s not the murder that drives them, it’s the torture. So if the fun with a particular victim grows flat, let’s say, then what’s the point of continuing?”

Bent shook his head in disgust. “So, if he’s no longer getting off on the reactions of the victim, then it’s game over.”

“Exactly. Torture-murderers are the worst of the worst. Take for instance Patton and her colleague: their murders weren’t fun for him. They were a means to an end, so getting rid of them was merely housekeeping. The job quick, precise. No playing around. Like buying gasoline for your car. You do it because you must, not because you enjoy the task.” Jones looked away a moment. “Vera and Eve, on the other hand, are his chosen victims. He’ll take as much time as he feels he can for as long as it is enjoyable to him.”

Bent cleared his throat. Couldn’t bear to consider the idea. “If ... we can’t pinpoint his location quickly enough ...”

“You know Vera,” Jones said. “She’s smart. She’s tough. She understands the Messenger. Understands killers like him better than most analysts. She will buy time. She’ll play his game to ensure he gets the biggest thrill possible until she figures out a way to take him.”

“Yeah,” Bent agreed. “She will.” He didn’t know that side of Vee so well yet. But he knew the woman all the way to her core. She would do everything in her power to stop this bastard from hurting her sister.

Jones reached into his pocket, drew out his cell phone. He frowned as he accepted the call. “Jones.”

Bent braced, hoped to hell this wasn’t worse news.

The call ended in just over a minute. Jones tucked the phone back into his pocket, his expression somber. “That was Agent Alcott. His guy in London, who has been watching Pamela’s flat, was surprised by the local police arriving at the building, sirens blaring. It seems a downstairs neighbor of Pamela’s reported a bad odor and some sort of liquid dripping from her ceiling.”

Holy shit. Bent’s gaze locked with the other man’s. “Solomon’s daughter is dead.”

“Throat slit,” Jones confirmed. “The building’s CCTV confirmed Patrick Solomon was the last person to go in and come out of her apartment.”

A new kind of panic raced up Bent’s spine. The guy killed his own mother. Fuck. “We have to find them.”

He and Jones stared at those damned maps again. The voices and activity around them seemed to fade to a hum. Somewhere out there—Bent scanned the lines and symbols on the pages—Vee and Eve were fighting for their lives. Dread swelled wider and deeper inside him. To stand here orchestrating the ongoing activities wasn’t enough. He had to get out there. He had to do something.

“Tell me,” he said to Jones, “where did he take his victims? Where did he leave them?”

“Back when he was active,” Jones began, “he—they—always left the victim at a location that had meaning to her life. Almost as if they wanted those left behind or the police investigating the case to understand that no place was safe from his reach. The profiler on the case insisted it was a continuation of theme—sending messages. They sent messages to each victim warning that she was next or that they were coming. Always, without deviation. The thought was that the drop location was a message as well.”

Bent’s instincts rose a degree higher. “Give me an example of what you mean.”

“For example,” Jones said, “Judy Finch, the first victim we know of, was left at an old, abandoned playground. Later, after some digging, we learned that this was the place where her father had a heart attack and died when she was a kid. He was there with her and her brother. She never went back to that park, her mother said. Not ever. Until her body was found there.”

“So part of the time he takes watching each victim is to learn all he can about that person,” Bent suggested. “Who they are during captivity is not enough. He—they—want to know the victim’s history. It makes the interaction more personal, more intimate.”

“Right,” Eric confirmed. “Shelia Upton—she was victim number six. Her body was found in a long-closed bookstore. That bookstore had been her favorite place when she was growing up. She went there all the time, her parents said, until it closed. She grieved it like a lost friend.”

Bent scanned the map again. There were places that had special meaning to the Boyett sisters. “Rose Hill Cemetery,” he said. “Their parents are buried there. Vera and Eve used to meet there all the time. Probably still do.”

“He might leave them there, but unless there’s a place where he can have privacy,” Jones explained, “we aren’t likely to find them there while he’s doing the torture thing.”

“The house where they grew up,” Bent mentioned. “That’s where their mother and their stepmother died ...” He hesitated. “No ... the cave.” He looked to Jones. “Vee and I checked the cave just yesterday. I have someone watching her place. You can’t get to that cave without going past the house.”

“Call your deputy,” Jones argued. “He’s slick. He could have slipped under even the most skilled deputy’s radar. Vera and Eve could be there right now.”

Bent attempted to contact the deputy watching the Boyett place.

No answer. Fear spiraled through him.

Jesus Christ. That was it. He looked to Jones. “I think you might be right.”

“Let’s go.”

Bent was already halfway to the door.