Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gideon checked in with the state police in Oregon, and in Washington State. He spread it out to Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, circled back to Colorado.
Every single lead on Dustin Dubecki had petered out or dead-ended.
He went back to the routes, both to the target in the Olympic Mountains and to Arden. He worked out alternate routes, studied the weather patterns, calculated the timing.
The Jesse Flint ID—dead as far as Gideon could see.
It hadn’t been used in over a week. Again, backtracking, he decided Dubecki paid in cash often, but he’d also made use of the credit card.
Hotels, gas. And, what chilled him, purchases of women’s clothing.
A few dresses, some boots, fucking underwear.
He debated sharing that with Arden, but what would it tell her?
He could have a woman with him, either willing or not. He could slip through the manhunt because they weren’t looking for a couple.
Odds? he thought. Low, but still possible. Certainly as possible as a five-year obsession.
But he just didn’t buy it.
He turned to his map on the wall, one with every known stop Dubecki had made, dated and pin-marked. And those pins stopped in the mountains of Colorado.
December twenty-seventh. They’d confirmed Dubecki had been in the cabin on that date. He’d left his DNA and prints all over the cabin. And he’d left his DNA inside his victim.
Since then … nothing.
“Chief? I’m off unless you need me for something.”
“Give me five, will you, Hawk? Sit down a minute.” As Hawk sat, Gideon gestured to the map.
“Dubecki used the Jesse Flint ID on the sixteenth, to buy a Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun, and ammo, the Glock, also in Columbus, on the morning of December eighteenth. He used it to buy gas, and we know he stopped in Indianapolis, switched plates at the airport before he moved on to Chicago, switched plates at O’Hare.
He got stuck in Chicago a couple of days.
He purchased a men’s sweater, thermal underwear, a woman’s parka, sweater, and two dresses in Chicago, again using the same card. ”
Nodding, Hawk followed along the route. “Traveling alone at that time, as far as we know.”
“Solo check-in at the Chicago Four Seasons, so yeah, as far as we know. Then he moved on to Iowa—weather bogged him down there an extra day. He bought gas, a hunting rifle with scope, road snacks, again using the card.”
“He’d have cash, too.”
“Which we can’t track. We have him crossing Iowa and into Nebraska.
Another dress, more gas, the hotel. Women’s dress and underwear.
Due west into Wyoming, where he bought a goddamn Stetson, Tecovas boots, and a pair of women’s Frye boots.
South from there to the cabin in Colorado, arrival Christmas Day, hit more weather, extended his stay.
Probably paid cash for groceries. He killed Hailey Parkinson on December twenty-seventh. ”
“And hasn’t used the credit card since,” Hawk finished.
“It took him a week to get from Ohio to Colorado. Weather delays ate up three of those days. So we say four travel days. Unless he wanted to spend the night with a dead body, we figure he left the cabin on the twenty-seventh.”
“Giving him a week to get here or up to Washington. Some weather, sure, but not like he hit in the Midwest or Colorado.”
“If he figured out his mistake, switched to cash and kept going, he should have gotten where he wanted to be. But, you look at the places he booked. High-end. You can’t check into a high-end hotel without ID, and they want a credit card on file.”
“Hole up, wait for new ID. That’ll take some time.”
“Not that long if you pay enough. He would. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d pay rather than stay in some cheap motel and delay any longer than he has to.”
Now Gideon sat. “The accounts we dug out? Closed two days ago, and empty. He got what he paid for and he’s on the road.”
“You think here.”
Though he’d gone over it from every angle, Gideon couldn’t pinpoint.
“Toss-up. He knows, has to, Arden’s going to resist. The place he’s going needs to be stocked. There’s a couple who open it when the family’s coming, stock it, make sure there’s firewood, fresh linens, all that. They haven’t been notified.”
Gideon paced. “He’s got a blind spot with this place, that’s my take. He knows law enforcement is after him, but he’s got this blind spot. Like we can’t reach him there, or won’t look there.”
“So the toss-up is he’d go there first, get everything ready. Then drive down—it’s under three hours—abduct her, take her back.”
“It’s the logical choice in a batshit mind, so I don’t count on it. I want to add another patrol on the house. I’d sit someone on it, but that makes it harder for her. She’s careful, she’s got the dog.”
“I’ll take care of that. We all know what he looks like, Chief.”
“Keep a sharp eye.”
Dustin drove by Arden’s house. He eased off the gas to take it in, its situation, the neighboring houses, the front entrance, the car—make and model—in the driveway.
He had to force himself to drive on. He wanted, so desperately it brought tears to his eyes, to go to that front door.
He imagined it as unlocked, so he could walk right in. She’d be in the kitchen, one he visualized as roomy, up-to-date with cabiny touches, just like The Retreat.
She’d be surprised to see him, of course. But welcoming.
If she wasn’t welcoming, he’d fix that right off the fucking bat.
He’d sweep her up and out. The thought of that had him trembling so he had to pull over, pull back some control.
She’d make noises about needing to pack, but he’d dismiss all that. He’d provide all she needed.
She’d resist. Yes, yes, she had that stubborn streak. He’d overcome that. If that required force, so be it.
He had zip ties, duct tape, and a nice roomy trunk.
No doubt she’d have softened up some by the time they got to The Retreat. But either way, he’d begin as he meant to go on. Teach the lesson.
Calm and confident again, he drove on.
He circled around one more time, noted a few lights on now as the sun slipped behind those western peaks. With considerable effort—and he congratulated himself on his willpower—he controlled the burning impulse to take her now.
The door might be locked after all, and he couldn’t afford her—with that stubborn streak—to keep it locked. She could go bitchy and call the police.
He’d booked a room, so he’d go check in, order up some food. Low profile, he reminded himself. He’d check on her later, try the door, try windows, see if he could find his way inside.
Surprise her while she slept.
If Gideon had left the station even five minutes earlier, he’d have passed the blue Mercedes with Idaho plates, seen the driver—shaggy black hair, scraggly beard.
Very likely his cop instincts would’ve buzzed.
Instead, he finished up some paperwork, and though he scanned cars and faces as he drove through and out of town, he saw nothing and no one to give him that buzz.
As Dustin had imagined, Arden stood in the kitchen. Gideon came in through the mudroom, exchanged greetings with Zorro before he took off his jacket, secured his weapon.
He stepped into the kitchen, where she whisked something in a small bowl.
“Hello, Chief.”
“Hello, Legs.”
“I happen to have a very nice sauvignon blanc chilling.”
“Why don’t I open that?”
“Why don’t you?”
He got out the bottle. “I thought it was my night to figure out dinner.”
“It was, but I decided to try this. Glazed salmon fillets, which I’m determined will be fabulous—with rice and Broccolini—and felt it was above your pay grade.”
“Maybe. But there’s a grill out there I’m pretty handy with.”
“Next time.” Still whisking, she leaned into a kiss. “I had a good day. You?”
“Good enough.” She smelled like peaches, fully ripe and ready. “Better now.”
She set the bowl aside, picked up the wine he’d poured. “I had a conversation with my editor.”
“Yeah? I take it that’s part of the good day.”
“A big part. They’re pretty high on the book I turned in, which brings relief, joy, anxiety.”
“Anxiety?”
“That they’ll hate the next one. It’s a vicious cycle, and I accept it as my lot.”
“Okay.”
Laughing, she sipped again. “It’s smart not to tell me I have nothing to worry about.”
“How would I know? Maybe this one sucks.”
Laughing again, she punched him, lightly. “To move beyond the potential suckiness of my work in progress, they’re high enough on the finished product they plan to give it a push.”
He fed a delighted Zorro, then stepped back into the kitchen. “What kind of push?”
“Publicity, promotion, marketing, better exposure in major accounts. Part of that would involve me touring next summer.”
“Like a rock star?”
“Not even remotely like a rock star. Possibly ten cities, Portland and Seattle to kick off. Signings, interviews, a book fair, and so on. It’s an opportunity.”
He studied her. “You haven’t done anything like this before?”
“It hasn’t been offered, but if it had, I’d have turned it down.” She stepped over, measured out the rice to get it started. “I haven’t been on a plane by myself in over three years. The only reason I’ve been on one at all, with my aunt and uncle, was to see Zoey, Travis, the families.”
She huffed out a breath.
“And that was torture. The last time I flew alone, my friend Kyra from Brooklyn’s wedding. When we were in middle school, we swore we’d be in each other’s weddings. Not the main attendant—she had her sister—but we’d be in each other’s wedding party.”
She turned to him. “We lost touch when I moved to Columbus—my fault. We reconnected and stayed connected, so I flew to Brooklyn, and I rented a car to drive back because I nearly didn’t get on the plane to go.
The airport, all those people, then the plane.
The confinement. I couldn’t face it again, so that was that.
I stopped doing signings, except at the bookstore where I worked, but even that was, well, horrible for me. I let him narrow my world.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t let him anything. The motherfucker beat and raped you.”