CHAPTER TWELVE
As the rural landscape blurred past the car window, Riley’s mind sorted through the fragments they’d gathered so far about the disappearance of a delivery driver in Bundydale—Cable Morris, twenty-seven, gone without a trace two nights ago.
Two delivery drivers. Two abandoned vehicles.
Two carefully orchestrated traps. One unsub, she was certain, methodically selecting his victims like a hunter choosing his prey.
“You’re quiet,” Ann Marie said from the passenger seat.
“Just thinking.”
“Routine,” Riley murmured. “That means he studies them, learns their patterns. Nothing impulsive about it.”
The GPS chirped, instructing them to turn onto a narrower road.
As they rounded the bend, Bundydale came into view—a small town nestled in a shallow valley, with a mix of older brick buildings and newer structures sprawled along its main thoroughfare.
A hardware store, a grocery market, and a couple of fast-food chains lined the main street.
A few faded American flags hung from lampposts, limp in the still summer air.
“Smaller than I expected,” Ann Marie observed as they passed a sign that read “Welcome to Bundydale, Est. 1892.”
“Makes his hunting ground that much more interesting. Two small towns, within thirty miles of each other. He knows this area well.”
The police station sat at the edge of what passed for downtown—a single-story brick building with a small parking lot where three patrol cars were neatly aligned. As Riley pulled into a visitor spot, she noticed Hodge’s unmarked vehicle already parked nearby.
“Perfect timing,” she said, killing the engine.
They stepped out into the heavy afternoon heat. Captain Hodge approached them, his expression grave beneath the brim of his regulation hat.
“Agents,” he greeted them. “Chief Peckham’s expecting us.”
The three of them walked toward the station entrance, their footsteps crunching on the gravelly asphalt.
Riley studied the building, noting the well-positioned security cameras and the freshly painted blue stripe that ran along the building’s facade—a small town’s gesture of support for its police force.
They entered into a small lobby cooled by an aggressive air conditioning system. A middle-aged civilian receptionist glanced up from her computer, but before she could speak, a door to the left swung open, revealing Chief Abel Peckham.
“Captain Hodge. FBI. I saw your cars come in. Right on time.”
Peckham was a solid presence in a crisp uniform.
In his mid-fifties, Riley guessed, with steel gray hair cropped close to his scalp and skin toughened by years of outdoor work.
His eyes—keen and assessing—moved over each of them before settling on Riley.
There was intelligence there, she noted, and a wariness that came from decades in law enforcement.
“Chief,” Hodge said, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “This is Special Agent Riley Paige and Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer from the BAU.”
Peckham’s handshake was firm but not aggressive. “Wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” he said, his voice carrying a slight drawl that spoke of local roots. “Had a feeling this must be connected to your Talomaska case the minute I heard the details. Too similar to be coincidence.”
Riley appreciated the lack of territorial posturing. Too often, local law enforcement viewed FBI involvement as an intrusion rather than assistance.
“Follow me,” Peckham said, gesturing them through the door he’d emerged from. “Got everything set up in our briefing room.”
As he led them down a short hallway, Riley noted that the station wasn’t large, but it was well-maintained, with recently painted walls and updated equipment visible through the glass partitions of offices they passed.
The briefing room was utilitarian—a rectangular space with a large table at its center, surrounded by chairs.
A digital projector hung from the ceiling, aimed at a pull-down screen on the far wall.
Crime scene photographs were already displayed on a corkboard, and several file folders were neatly stacked on the table.
“Coffee?” Peckham offered, gesturing to a pot in the corner.
“Please,” Riley said. She hadn’t realized how much she needed it until that moment.
Ann Marie declined with a polite smile, already moving toward the crime scene photos. Hodge accepted a cup with a word of thanks.
Once they were all settled, Peckham dimmed the lights slightly and activated the projector.
A map of the county appeared on the screen, with two locations marked—one in red, one in blue.
Peckham had clearly taken the trouble to learn the facts of Amanda Lindeen’s disappearance.
He was fully prepared for their visit, and Riley was glad of that.
She sipped her coffee—strong and bitter, just as she preferred it—as she listened.
“Cable Morris disappeared two nights ago,” Peckham began, pointing to the blue marker.
“Twenty-seven years old, worked for FleetRush Logistics for about eleven months. Clean record, good employee according to his supervisor. Was on his regular route, making deliveries to some of our more remote residences.”
He called up an image of a young African American man with earnest eyes and a tentative smile. Cable Morris’s deep brown skin contrasted with the crisp white collar of his FleetRush uniform, the company logo embroidered in red and blue on the breast pocket.
“His last confirmed delivery was at 6:15 p.m. to the Halloway farm, here.” Peckham indicated a spot on the map. “After that, he had three more stops scheduled. When he didn’t make those deliveries and didn’t respond to dispatch, his company tracked his vehicle’s GPS to this location.”
He zoomed in on the blue marker, revealing a desolate stretch of road bordered by dense woods on one side and an open field on the other.
“Road’s not heavily traveled,” Peckham continued. “Maybe ten, fifteen cars a day. Mostly locals. His truck was found with the driver’s door open, engine running, packages still inside. Keys in the ignition, cell phone left in the car.”
Ann Marie was taking notes, her pen moving quickly across her notepad. “Any signs of struggle?”
“Nothing obvious inside the vehicle,” Peckham replied. “But we found this about twenty feet in front of the truck.” He clicked to the next slide.
The image showed a child’s bicycle lying in the middle of the road. It was small, painted red with silver handlebars, the kind meant for an eight- or nine-year-old.
“That’s not Morris’s bike,” Ann Marie observed.
“No,” Peckham confirmed. “And no child has been reported missing in the area. We’ve canvassed every house within five miles. Nobody knows whose bike it is.”
“Bait,” Riley said quietly.
“That’s our thinking,” he said. “Morris sees a kid’s bike in the road, stops to check if there’s a child in danger, gets out of his vehicle...”
“And walks right into a trap,” Riley finished.
“Just like Amanda Lindeen,” Ann Marie added.
“Exactly like Lindeen,” Peckham agreed. “I spoke with Chief Rawley yesterday morning about her case. Same time of day, same type of victim—delivery driver on a set, predictable route, same method of luring them out of their vehicle with something that would make them stop to help. And a similar message left behind in the vehicle’s cab. ”
He brought up a photo of a white business envelope with “UNDELIVERABLE” written across it in black marker. “I’m sure you’ve already seen the code that was inside.”
“Yes, the FBI has people working on both of those numeric puzzles,” Riley told him. She didn’t mention that they had turned the codes over to a man jailed in Red Onion State Prison who claimed that he could decipher them.
Peckham clicked through several more photographs: Cable’s abandoned truck from different angles, close-ups of the interior showing nothing obviously disturbed, the bicycle as it was found lying on its side.
“Mind if I...?” Riley gestured toward the corkboard where printed versions of the same images were pinned.
“Help yourself,” Peckham said.
Riley stood and moved closer to the photographs.
There was something about physical images that sometimes-revealed details lost in digital versions.
She studied the truck’s interior—a half-empty water bottle in the cup holder, a clipboard with delivery forms clipped to it, the phone left on the seat.
No obvious signs of a struggle inside the vehicle. The driver had likely exited willingly.
She moved her attention to the images of the bicycle.
It was positioned at an angle that suggested it had fallen rather than been deliberately placed.
A convincing touch. Someone panicking because a child might have been injured would be too focused on looking for the supposed victim to analyze the staging.
“Any tire marks or footprints at the scene?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the photographs.
“Road’s mostly gravel and hardpack,” Peckham replied. “We did find some tire impressions about fifty yards back from Morris’s truck, pulled off onto the shoulder. Could be our unsub’s vehicle, waiting for Morris to come along.”
“Or just someone who pulled over to take a call,” Hodge suggested.
“True,” Peckham acknowledged. “But a witness—elderly woman who lives about a quarter mile down that road—reported seeing a dark-colored SUV parked there about an hour before Morris would have come through. Said it caught her attention because it’s not a spot people usually stop.”
Riley turned back to face them. “Did she get a look at the driver?”
Peckham shook his head. “Tinted windows. She couldn’t see inside.”
Ann Marie looked up from her notes. “Any ransom demands? Contact from the abductor?”
“Nothing,” Peckham said grimly. “Same as your Lindeen case, from what I understand.”
Riley returned to the table and picked up her coffee, now cooled to a temperature she could drink more easily. “What do we know about Cable Morris? Any connection to Amanda Lindeen? Did they know each other?”
“Not that we’ve found,” Peckham replied. “Different companies, different towns, different social circles. Only connection we can see is their job—both delivery drivers with regular routes in rural areas.”
“Predictable,” Riley murmured. “The unsub knew exactly when and where to find them.”
“That’s our thinking,” Peckham agreed. “He studied their routines, set his trap accordingly.”
Riley took another sip of her coffee, organizing her thoughts. “I’d like to visit the abduction site,” she said finally. “See it firsthand.”
“Figured you would. I can take you there now if you want. It’s about fifteen minutes outside town.”
“Let’s go,” Riley said, setting down her empty cup.
They gathered their things and followed Peckham back through the station.
As they stepped outside, the late afternoon heat hit them like a wall after the air-conditioned interior.
The sky had taken on the golden quality of approaching evening, though sunset was still hours away in the height of summer.
“I’ll lead the way,” Peckham said, heading toward his patrol car. “Road can be a bit tricky to find if you don’t know the area.”
Riley, Ann Marie, and Hodge returned to their respective vehicles. “You’re hoping to get a feeling at the scene,” Ann Marie said as Riley pulled out of the parking lot.
Following Peckham’s patrol car, Riley watched Peckham’s taillights as he turned onto the main road heading out of town. “Maybe,” she replied. “Sometimes being at the actual location helps me see things more clearly.”
The road quickly transitioned from town to country, the buildings giving way to fields and patches of woodland. They passed small farms with big old barns, roadside produce stands now closed for the evening, and the occasional cluster of mailboxes marking the entrance to a private drive.
They followed Peckham‘s car as it turned onto progressively narrower roads, the pavement eventually giving way to gravel. The woods grew thicker on either side, creating the impression of driving through a tunnel of green.
“What’s bothering me,” Riley said, “is the feeling I got at the scene of Amanda’s abductions that it was no kidnapping. Amanda was gone.”
“Gone,” Ann Marie repeated, understanding the unspoken meaning. “You think she was already dead when we were there.”
Keeping her eyes on the road ahead, Riley added, “And that’s what worries me about Cable Morris. If the same person took him, using the same method, following the same pattern...”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
“You think he’s already dead too,” Ann Marie said softly.
“Yes,” Riley finally said, the admission tasting like ash in her mouth. “I think Cable Morris is dead. And if we don’t figure out who’s doing this quickly, someone else will be next.”