Cache a Predator Read online

  “I agree. Come into the house.” She led him up the driveway through a side door and into a kitchen.

  At the time he’d called Sarah to talk about the perp’s profile, meeting her at her home seemed like the right thing to do, but now that he was here it felt too personal. He’d needed someone to talk to, and she seemed sincere about helping him, so how could he resist? But now he needed to ask her questions about her father too. And sleep deprivation prevented him from thinking clearly.

  The house smelled of beef and gravy. “Wow, it smells good in here.”

  “Crock pots are handy for that kind of thing. They make your house smell good for days. Can I get you a bowl? It’s stew.” She sat on a chair, pulled her leather boots off, and set them on a rug next to the door.

  He bent over to unlace his shoes, but she told him not to worry, to leave them on, so he stomped his feet on the rug. “I don’t want to impose, and I’m not sure I have much of an appetite.”

  “No imposition. This is the least I can do.” She paused and tilted her head, her serious expression confirming her sincerity. “I always make extra. And you need to eat.” She nodded toward his waist. “You’re thin.”

  His ears burned. No woman, except for his mother, had noticed or taken the time to comment on his physique in a long time—at least not that he’d known about.

  She pulled out a chair for him to sit on and poured him a glass of tea. Then she set spoons and napkins on the table.

  He watched as she glided across the room, so at ease in her home and in the kitchen, her confidence showing in the way she held her head and squared her shoulders.

  What was he doing thinking about her and watching her? This was police business. He needed to suppress his thoughts about how attractive she was and talk to her about Quinn.

  “Quinn called me.”

  Sarah stopped and spun around to look at him. “What?”

  Brett explained all he knew. He told her about the description of where she was and the perp’s blue truck.

  Sarah covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes misted. “This is good news. She’s alive, and—”

  “She was scared.” Brett shook his head. “I can’t think about it.” He took a deep breath, looking up at her. “It’s better if I stay focused on my questions and not let myself go there—you know, think about if she’s safe.”

  Sarah nodded. “I understand. Ask me anything.”

  “Didn’t you say you grew up around here?”

  “Yep.” She motioned to her surroundings. “This was the house I grew up in.” She scooped the stew into two bowls and set them on the table.

  “Do you know anyone with the last name Samuel?” He watched her reaction.

  “Why?” She filled a bowl with shredded cheese.

  “Police business. That’s all.”

  “Did he do something wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that, but he died recently, and I’m trying to find out a little about him.”

  She sat in the chair across from him at the table. “Don’t wait for me. Dig in.” She hesitated. “Levi Samuel was my father.” She stared out the window.

  He reached for his spoon without taking his eyes off her. “I’m sorry.”

  She waved her hand and chortled. “Don’t be. I loathed the man. If he were still alive, I wouldn’t be in this house right now. I guess you could say we didn’t see eye to eye. He’s been dead to me ever since I left for college.”

  “Why?”

  She gazed out the window. “I spent years trying to forget him, and I’d rather not start remembering him now, so if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about him.” She smiled. “Did you want to ask me specific profile questions about your perp?” Her tone had lightened.

  He nodded. Obviously, she didn’t want to talk about her father, but he needed to press her. “Can I ask you one question about your father?”

  “Like?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Why is your last name different from his?”

  “I don’t know what this has to do with Quinn, but I changed my name years ago so I wouldn’t be reminded of him every time I signed my name.” She passed Brett a plate of crackers. “Does that help?”

  He smiled and nodded even though he wanted to ask her more. It was obvious she was very defensive about him, but because he didn’t know for sure if her father was the first victim he wouldn’t press her. Yet. Maybe Officer Hudson would call him soon and he’d know for certain one way or another.

  “Tell me what you know so far.”

  Brett reached for a few crackers and set them on his plate. He blew on the stew, took a bite, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “This is really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You work with children who live in troubled homes, and I think our guy had a messed-up youth. He seems to have something against sex offenders, which makes us think he himself could have been abused. The perp severs the sex offender’s man-part after he tourniquets them so they won’t bleed to death—which tells us he doesn’t want to kill them. The first victim was a dead man, but the others he kept alive. He wants them to live without their—”

  When Brett looked up, Sarah had lost all color in her cheeks. She stared at him, her mouth agape. “Oh, I get it now. You think my father could have been the first victim—that someone cut his—”

  “I have to look at every possibility.”

  “But who would do that to my father?” She licked her lips, seemingly nervous.

  “What about your brother? Didn’t I meet him at your office?”

  “Dean?” She laughed and crossed her arms. “No way. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Do you have any other siblings?”

  “No, there’s just the two of us. Has someone verified that our father’s body has been tampered with?”

  “No, not yet, but—”

  “Then let’s move on. I’m sure he’ll have all his body parts.”

  Brett furrowed his brow. “Okay, I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Okay.” But she was. Brett could tell. He explained about the chloroform and the ketamine. “I think he might work in a morgue, or a medical place, or with animals—somewhere he might have access to drugs.”

  Sarah pushed her bowl aside and crossed her arms again. “How do you know it’s a man? I know more women who are man-haters than men.”

  Had her demeanor suddenly changed? Was she acting defensively? “Quinn said a man had her hostage, and he liked to play games.” He carefully watched her expression.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Really? I counsel women every day who are angry about how men have abused them emotionally, physically, and spiritually, but Quinn would know.”

  Brett’s skin prickled at Sarah’s sudden cold demeanor. He narrowed his eyes and continued. “The perp seems methodical, almost neurotically clean about what he does. He isn’t staging any of the victims, and he plays games with their penis by planting them in geo-sites.”

  “Oh, so that’s what you found in the site yesterday?”

  He nodded. “What does that tell us about our guy?”

  She seemed to be thinking. “Typically the more organized, methodical, control-freak types are firstborns, unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “The family dynamics in one family differ from another. There are many variables. Sometimes the firstborn and second-born children have reversed roles and the second-born is more organized and methodical, so we can’t assume your perp’s birth order with certainty.”

  Was this the situation with her and Dean? Was he the methodical one? Ali and Mark seemed to fit the traditional scenario. Mark was the firstborn and definitely the more organized of the two, but he guessed either one didn’t really mean anything.

  Sarah continued. “If one of the siblings has a disability, the other might compensate for that too. Add abuse to the scenario, and the dynamics can change too. So again, it’s tough to know the birth o
rder of your guy.” Sarah stared out the window.

  What was she thinking?

  She continued, still looking out. “As far as where this perp might live? Based on what you’ve told me he might be a recluse. Someone who lives alone, maybe a social deviate. Someone who doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

  Brett finished drinking his tea. “Obviously he’s a geocacher too. You’ve been geocaching for a while. Do you know anyone who might fit this profile?”

  She stared into her bowl of soup. “Not offhand, but I’ll think about it. It’s possible he might be a muggle.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a geocaching term for someone who doesn’t know much about geocaching. Someone who sits near the cache site, preventing the hiker from searching the area. They’re people who get in the way.”

  “But if he’s depositing peckers in cache sites, he knows more about geocaching than I did. I didn’t even know what geocaching was until the Boy Scouts brought the first one in. He’d have to understand the concept anyway.”

  Sarah rose and rinsed their dishes in the sink. “There are muggles who know nothing about geocaching, and then there are muggles who don’t really play the game; they just steal the flag.”

  Brett rubbed his eyes. “The flag?”

  “The prizes inside.” Sarah returned to her seat.

  “What do you call those who deposit, er, things instead of take them?”

  “I have no idea. Mugglers?” She laughed.

  Brett tried to rub the sandpaper sensation out of his eyes. “Do you know anyone in Hursey Lake who fits this ‘firstborn or second-born, abused, recluse’ profile?”

  Sarah laughed and took a sip of tea. “There could be two dozen kids or adults in Hursey Lake who might hold a grudge against sex offenders. Do you have any idea how many children are abused in this county?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “More than you know, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame some of them if they’d done this.”

  Brett shook his head. “Really? Would you?”

  There. He’d said it. He held his breath.

  Her eyes seemed to search his. “Do you mean could I have done something like this? Is that what you’re really asking?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sarah’s heart fluttered like a bat’s wings trapped in an airless bag. Did Brett really believe she could be the perp? She whispered, “Is that what you think? That I could maim these men and kidnap your daughter?”

  His face turned crimson, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t believe that, because we know it’s a man, but I don’t really know much about you.”

  She nodded. “You’re right about that. You don’t.”

  “There are things about you that I … don’t understand,” Brett stammered. “All I know is that your relationship with your father was less than perfect, based on what you told me, which wasn’t very much. You also geocache—which fits the profile of our guy.”

  Tears brimmed her eyes. She reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a wadded tissue, and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve spent the last ten years trying to forget what happened between my father and me. He abused me emotionally and sexually. He was an evil man. A control freak. But I vowed I’d overcome the pain. I left his home when I was eighteen, and spent years studying psychology, getting my counseling degree so I could help others. I changed my name, determined to rid my veins of his poison. I’m a nurturer. Not a psychopath.”

  Brett reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. I believe you. It must have been difficult.”

  “It was. I don’t like to talk about him.” She saw sincerity in his furrowed brows and felt the warmth of his fingers on hers. “You have no idea.” She blotted at her face with the tissue.

  He squeezed her hand. “I never intended to hurt your feelings or insinuate you were involved in this. My reasoning is clouded with worry and exhaustion. Of course, I can’t imagine you taking Quinn or hurting anyone. I noticed your compassion for children the day I met you. It’s a gift, commendable. Quinn took to you right away.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. His eyes were bloodshot and drooped at the corners. He looked exhausted. She shouldn’t have acted so sensitive. Maybe she’d done that because she thought he liked her, was attracted to her. Maybe it was because she felt guilty for putting Quinn in harm’s way. Whatever the reason, she needed to get over it and help him find his daughter.

  She moved to the chair near the door, suddenly embarrassed for her outburst, and tried to regain her composure. “I need to go feed the animals. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” She slipped on her boots and left him sitting at the kitchen table by himself.

  When she returned twenty minutes later, the dishes were washed, and Brett had fallen asleep with his head on the table. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. He probably hadn’t slept for days. It wasn’t going to hurt anything to let him sleep a few hours. Maybe she should take him into the guest bedroom. She nudged his shoulder. “Brett?”

  Nothing.

  She poked his arm again. “Brett, why don’t you sleep in a bed? Here, come with me.” Max stuck his nose near Brett’s face and snorted.

  He didn’t move.

  Sarah put his arm around her shoulder. It was as limp as a dead cat. “Come on, can you get up?”

  “Hmm? Where are we going?” His eyes remained shut and his words groggy.

  “I’m taking you to the guest room. Can you walk?”

  “Are you coming onto me?” He stood and stumbled a little.

  “Don’t be silly. You’re exhausted. Lean on me, and I’ll get you to a room.”

  He shook his head. “I have to stay awake for Quinn.”

  She prodded him on. “A few hours won’t hurt. There’s nothing you can do. The entire police force is out looking for her.”

  He didn’t argue. His dead weight pressed into her shoulders, and his holster jabbed her hip. He smelled of fabric softener and hair gel. Max followed. A few times she thought she was going to fall down with Brett sprawled on top of her, but they made it. She sat him on the edge of the bed and let his head fall back onto the pillow. He lifted his legs with her help. One by one she untied his shoes, took them off, and set them on the floor.

  He mumbled something like, “Don’t let me sleep too long. Have to find Quinn.”

  She covered him with the blanket. Max hopped up on the bed and curled up next to Brett. The dog sighed, dropping his head onto his paws and shut his eyes.

  #

  The guest room hadn’t been slept in for over twenty years—at least, not that Sarah knew of. It used to be hers when she was a little girl, which was probably why she had no interest in sleeping in there now. She returned to the kitchen and glanced at her watch. It was only eight p.m.

  She paced, remembering Brett’s earlier questions about her father and the perp’s profile.

  Her brother fit it perfectly. What if he had something to do with severing man parts? He was a recluse, had been abused as a child, and worked in a veterinarian office, but he’d never hurt anyone before. He’d always been timid and into working with animals. And he was a little guy, socially inept, not bold enough to do what Brett said the guy was doing. But still, he fit the personality profile. He knew about geocaching because she always talked with him about her finds.

  She dismissed the whole idea and shook the thought from her mind. He’d never be able to do something so morbid, and he hated change or leaving his comfort zone, places he knew well.

  She went out into the living room and stared at the television. She turned it on, looking for a distraction. A local newscaster appeared. “Our latest story is one of love, a wedding proposal, and another geocaching incident here in Hursey Lake.” Sarah’s heart raced. Had they found new evidence?

  “Police are advising all geocachers to stop their hunts here in Stark County until further notice. This afternoon Nikki Scheurer and Justin Wright fou
nd another severed body part, apparently hacked from the latest victim, when they went on their hike. After they found the cache box, but before they opened it, Justin proposed to his girlfriend, Nikki, pretending someone had left the ring in the box.”

  The camera moved to a young long-haired redheaded girl with perfect teeth. She giggled. “I was shocked. It was both the best day and the worst day of my life.” She dramatically placed her hand on her chest. “I don’t think we’ll ever geocache again.” She gazed at her fiancé with dreamy eyes.

  The newscaster spoke to the guy. “Did she say ‘yes’ before you found the body part?”

  Justin laughed and stared at the mic. He looked a little older than the girl. His dark hair shagged down around his ears, and when he smiled his cheeks folded into deep dimples. They made a cute pair. “Yes.” He turned to look at his fiancée and reached for her hand. They looked at each other with a glow of adoration. She’d seen that look before and how quickly it could fade.

  Sarah watched the rest of the news and saw a rerun of Brett’s press conference and his plea for Quinn. She paced, thinking of Dean and wondering if she should take a walk to his house. She hadn’t talked to him much since their father had died, and the day he came to clean her windows she’d been busy with Brett and Quinn. She’d have to invite him over tomorrow for dinner.

  She went to her bedroom, down the hall from the one Brett slept in. It was her mother’s former room, the preserved one that no one had slept in since she’d died—at least not while her father was alive.

  After their mother had died, but while their father was still living, Sarah and Dean were forbidden to go in there. But now that her father was gone and she’d inherited the house, she allowed herself to move back in. At first, she’d been tentative about moving back into the house. She hadn’t lived there or spoken to her father in more than ten years. But once his funeral was over and she mustered the courage to go to the house, she began to sense her mother’s presence, craving the goodness.

  Initially, moving back in had been creepy because remnants of her father had been everywhere, but with help she’d managed to remove every bit of his things. She dumped them into a heap outside, made a fire pit, and burned them, watching and reveling in the smoldering of his belongings and every painful memory he’d caused her. But even with his stuff gone, she still couldn’t sleep in her old room. The only safe place she could rest without nightmares was in her mother’s old room.