Eleven Detective Olivia Newhouse #2
Walt is in the kitchen when I make my way back there. “Nothing?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You find anything?”
“I opened the door to the crawl space. No hidden basement.” He peels off his gloves. “Just the usual. Spiders and crickets.”
“We should take a look around beyond the tree line.” I survey the main living area one last time. “Make sure there’s not an underground storm shelter or a root cellar. Or one of those bugout hidey-holes.”
He nods. “Let’s do it.”
It takes a solid two hours to have a good look around. But it’s better than sitting around waiting for the locals to arrive. The Chester County sheriff came first, then the fire marshal. They got started while we carried on with our search of the property.
If there was an underground bunker of some sort, we couldn’t find any indication of a fresh-air access or an entrance.
No newly turned earth. None of the vegetation appears to have been disturbed.
If Hyatt and Reeves killed Fanning, they buried him so deep in the woods we’ll never find his body without ground penetrating radar.
Assuming his remains aren’t in the rubble from that fire.
Speaking of the fire, in the shed near the tree line, there’s a tractor and a number of attachments, like a bushhog. But the most troubling is the two five-gallon metal gas cans—both empty. Based on Walt’s sniff of each, one had held gas, the other diesel fuel. Both accelerants.
At the front of the house, I consider the pond.
It’s possible they dumped him in the water.
I walk out onto the small dock; the boards creak and sigh as if no one has disturbed them in a while.
I scan the shimmering surface. Doesn’t look that deep, but I don’t think I want to dive in and find out. The water would be as cold as ice.
“Thinking of taking a swim?” Walt joins me at the dock.
“I’ll pass.” I turn to him. “We’re closing in on the end of our list with nothing to show for it. Maybe we’re focused on the wrong victims.”
If Fanning took a victim, getting injured in the process, he would be too scared to go back home.
That’s a given. He would hide until he was found or escaped to someplace far away.
The only question is: Where would he hide?
He has no living family. No resources to speak of.
I can’t see him lying low with a friend.
Fanning is a loner. Based on his file, he always worked alone and he never ran.
According to his own statements, he’d lived in and around Nashville his whole life.
The experts agreed that every child he took without getting caught made him braver.
Cocky son of a bitch.
My stomach growls. I turn to my partner. “We should head back. Grab some lunch.”
“Sounds good to me,” Walt agrees.
I load into the Tahoe while he has a final conversation with the sheriff.
As Walt heads for the Tahoe, he’s checking the screen of his phone. “Just got a text from Holland,” he says as he climbs behind the wheel.
Detective Renae Holland is part of the Youth Services Division, assigned to the Missing and Runaway Juveniles Unit. This news sets me on edge.
“Two kids were reported missing this morning. A sixteen- and a seventeen-year-old.” His face reflects the dread in his voice.
“Damn.” Fanning didn’t generally hunt in that age group, but he’s been in prison a long time. His tastes or his ability to wait out the perfect prey may have changed. “We should eat on the way.”
The sooner we talk to the families, the sooner we’ll know if this is part of our investigation.
I hope to hell not. No child should ever be touched by a monster like Fanning.
The idea doesn’t jibe with our Reeves/Hyatt theory, but for now the possibility that the two former vics nabbed Fanning and burned him to death is just a theory. Even if it proves true, it doesn’t exclude the possibility that Fanning could have abducted someone before he was grabbed.
As Walt drives back toward Nashville, I find myself obsessing about David and his family again.
I love him. I do. Sometimes I feel completely certain that I want to marry him.
Then those doubts creep back in. I can’t comprehend why I suddenly feel incapable of relating to his family or beneath them somehow.
I’ve never experienced such a lack of confidence.
And if I can’t see my way past all that, what about the baby? What do I do from here?
For starters, I don’t sell the farm. I may end up needing to go back there to live.
It’s a good place for kids. Quiet, peaceful.
There are no horses anymore, but that can change.
I cannot imagine in a million years homeschooling my child as my parents did me, which is okay because the farm is located in a good school district.
Could I be a good mother? My mother was a great mother.
She died when I was twenty-three, but my father and I made it a point to speak of her often.
Recalled all the fun times. He would not allow her memory to die.
He made sure I never forgot no matter how busy I was with work.
He reminded me of the family life we shared.
Maybe keeping all those memories in front of me was his way of ensuring he never forgot a single moment, either.
He was a dedicated, loving husband, father, and doctor.
Though he didn’t have an opportunity to get to know David until just a couple of months before his death, he liked him. I had the impression he approved of our fledgling relationship. I wish there had been more time.
I glance at Walt. I wonder whether a man like David can possibly ever be the sort of caring man my father was, that Walt is. I’m not so sure men like them exist anymore. A dying breed.
Walt’s gray hair is mussed on one side from our trek through the woods. I smile and resist the urge to reach over and smooth it. I don’t want to embarrass him. He’ll glance in the mirror and notice eventually.
My thoughts shift back to David. No, he is not like my father or Walt.
Chances are, he won’t ever be. But then I’m not exactly the storybook picture of a wife.
I suppose I’m about as far from a tradwife as is possible to get and still be a member of the female species.
Which begs the question of my nurturing skills.
Too late to worry about that now.
We hit a drive-through and grab sandwiches and drinks.
A few minutes later we’re already at the first of the two addresses we need to visit. At the top of our list is Chloe Simone, sixteen years old.
The Simone home is a small white bungalow with green shutters and a wide porch.
The houses along the block are shoehorned next to each other with barely a strip of grass between them.
It’s an older neighborhood with mature trees and no shortage of deferred maintenance.
Chloe lives with her grandparents since her parents died in a house fire when she was only ten.
She’s an honor student at her school and has lots of friends.
The girl’s grandmother gave her free rein to roam the neighborhood as long as her homework was done and her grades were in order.
Brighter than average, Chloe had all the free time in the world to wander to her heart’s desire. And now she’s missing.
Posters, flowers, and stuffed animals surround a shrine started in Chloe’s front yard. “Please send Chloe home!” “Help us find Chloe!” “God will bring Chloe home.”
Unfortunately, unless her abductor suddenly grows a conscience and drops her off somewhere or by sheer luck she escapes, the only way she is coming home is if the cops working on her case find her in time or via the morgue.
At this point, to believe anything else is wishful thinking.
Even the small reward offered for information on the missing girl will likely be futile.
Chloe Simone has been missing for twice that critical forty-eight hours.
The grandmother mistakenly thought the class trip was this week.
It wasn’t until one of Chloe’s friends showed up looking for her that the grandmother realized her mistake.
According to the police report, the poor grandmother is beside herself.
She has not laid eyes on the child since Sunday morning and hope is dwindling.
Sadly she has good reason to be afraid. Chloe’s odds of being found alive have diminished considerably over the past twenty-four hours. Even Fanning never kept a victim more than a few hours. Thankfully, none of his—as far as we know—were murdered.
Unless his MO has changed this time or some aspect of his strategy has gone terribly, terribly wrong, hopefully he hasn’t killed anyone. I think of the blood at his rental house. He’s been out of the game for a long while. His abduction skills are no doubt rusty. A fatal accident may have occurred.
Then again, there’s always the possibility that he has suddenly decided to keep a victim, hiding in plain sight as he did before.
Still, keeping a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old victim compliant wouldn’t be an easy task.
Add to that the issue of transportation.
His vehicle, tires flat and windshield broken, remains in the driveway at his rental house. How did he move a victim?
Lends more credence to the idea that he is the victim.
Milton Simone, the grandfather, answers the door.
Walt does the introductions and we’re promptly invited in.
My partner begins with the expected questions.
How are they holding up? Is there anything else the police should be doing that they are not?
Can we get them anything they might need?
Walt knows the manager at the local Kroger.
He can have anything they need delivered at no charge.
The elderly couple assures us they’re fine and that they have everything they need, except their granddaughter. A framed photo of Chloe sits on the coffee table surrounded by lit prayer candles and the family’s Bible. The book is dog-eared and visibly worn from use.