Page 88 of Return of the Spider

A woman answered on the second ring. “Shaina Watson, recorder’s office.”

I told her who I was and gave Ms. Watson the address I was interested in.

“LeeAnne and Michael Lawton used to own that place,” she said immediately.

“You know it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” the woman said. “Off the north side of the Chrome Barrens, big untouched area up there.”

“You know who owns it now?”

Her voice got tighter. “I know who inherited it. LeeAnne’s grandson, Eamon.”

“Eamon Lawton?” I said, scribbling it down.

“Eamon Diggs,” she said, sounding disgusted. “Heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have,” I said.

“Look the creep up. He did time for rape.”

CHAPTER

72

Suddenly i no longerhad the day off.

“I have to go,” I told Maria when she got out of the shower.

“Alex.” She groaned. “You said you’d spend the day with us. I need you here.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. “But I have a very strong feeling that we just got him, the Bulldog killer, the guy in the white van. There’s a potential suspect we’ve just unearthed who was previously convicted for multiple rapes.”

Maria looked discouraged, maybe a little abandoned, as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Can’t wait until Monday, I suppose?”

“I don’t know if I could live with myself if we waited and—”

Maria held up her hands in surrender. “You’re right. You’re right. Go. I’ll see if Nana Mama can come over and give me a hand with a few things.”

“You’re sure?”

“Go. I won’t be responsible for someone else dying.”

I was out the door ten minutes later. Sampson picked me up in a squad car, and as soon as we were on I-95 heading north, we radioed and got patched through to Tommy French’s home phone.

“You guys are overstaying your welcome,” he grumbled by way of greeting. “I’m about to go out Christmas shopping with my daughters.”

“We apologize, Tommy,” Sampson said. “But a name’s come up in association with the registered owners of that van. You know anything about a guy named Eamon Diggs?”

There was a silence long enough for us to hear one of his daughters complaining in the background. French said quietly, “John, listen to me, that is one bad dude, so bad I can’t talk about the specifics at the moment. How did he come up?”

I said, “Turns out he’s the grandson of the van owner and inherited the farm near Oxford, Pennsylvania, where our Ford Econoline was last registered.”

There was another long silence. French said, “Where are you now?”

“On our way to that farm,” Sampson said. “Gonna look around.”

“You’ve got no jurisdiction and no cause to go in there, John,” French said firmly.