Cache a Predator Read online

  She changed into a T-shirt and baggy shorts and climbed in bed with her Kindle, hoping to read, but finding she couldn’t focus. She turned out the light and tried to sleep, but she tossed and turned. Just knowing there was a man in the house unnerved her.

  When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed she was a child again. That she and her brother were playing tag outside near the barn, and their mother was calling to them, standing in the front yard with a kite in her hand. She played out some of the string, and the kite’s rainbow colors sailed back and forth in the wind. She said, “Come, I’ll teach you how to fly a kite.”

  Sarah and Dean giggled and ran to her, running against the wind. But the wind’s force pushed Sarah back and made her run harder to gain distance. She gulped air and lost her breath. The more she ran toward her mother, the farther the wind pushed her back. She yelled, “I’m coming, Mama.” But the wind took the sound of her words away. Her mama kept waving for them to come.

  Dean held Sarah’s hand. Little brother, Dean. His tiny arms and legs just like thin tree branches. He was always small for his age and sickly. She tightened her grip on his hand, certain the wind would blow him away from her if she didn’t. “Hold tight, little brother. We’ll get there.”

  But the more they tried, the farther they fell back, until finally Sarah couldn’t see her mother anymore. She’d disappeared. The wind died, and their father loomed above them. His yellow teeth, his bent nose, and the scar on his forehead stared back at them. When she heard his deranged, boisterous laugh she screamed, which made him laugh all the more.

  Sarah bolted upright in bed, her heart racing. Perspiration crawled down her neck like ants marching up a tree. Why had the old man suddenly appeared in her dreams here in her mother’s room? It was like he was taunting her, saying, “You can’t escape me.” Oh, how she hated him.

  She glanced at the clock—it was a little after eleven.. She’d only been asleep a few hours. She went to the bathroom, got a drink of water, and tiptoed down the hallway to check on Brett. She peeked in the room and heard Brett snoring softly. Max lifted his head and perked his ears. She whispered, “It’s okay, boy. Go back to sleep,” and pulled his door shut.

  As she made her way down the hallway, she heard a noise in the kitchen. She froze and listened. Was it her imagination? Then she heard it again. But this time she heard him say her name like he used to when they were children. “S-s-sarah?” It was Dean.

  It wasn’t unusual for him to stop in at the house when he was hungry or bored. His cabin was about a half mile on the other side of the hill. But typically he didn’t stop at the house this late. Maybe he was looking for a late-night snack.

  He used to stutter when he was frightened, or when something was troubling him, but over the years he’d improved. Why was he stuttering now?

  She went into the kitchen. He stood with his back to her washing his hands, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Dean swiveled around. “Y-y-you scared me.” He wore his shiny boots—the ones he kept polished till they shone—his pressed jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt. He stared at the ceiling and then the refrigerator. Eye contact had always been difficult for him, but typically he was better with her than with others.

  “You okay?” Sarah put her hand on her hip. “Or are you here to eat more of the apple pie?”

  “I was out t-t-taking a walk and got h-h-hungry, then I saw the car.” He pointed outside, twisting the bottom of his shirt.

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah, that’s Officer Reed’s car. I’m okay. He’s the man whose daughter is missing.”

  “W-w-why is he here?”

  “For my help, but he fell asleep. He hasn’t slept in days. I’m letting him sleep for a few hours.”

  “He is b-b-bad. Didn’t he h-h-hurt his daughter?”

  “No. He’s a good man.”

  He shrugged. “I h-h-heard he hurt her.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  He stared down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Around town.”

  “Well, they’re rumors. That’s all they are. He’s a good father.”

  “I saw him at your office that d-d-day I was cleaning your windows.” He opened the fridge and took a swig of milk from the carton. “Why did they take his daughter away from h-h-him?”

  She took a glass out of the cupboard and handed it to him. “It’s too complicated, and it’s not professional for me to speak about his case.” Sarah took the milk carton from Dean and filled his glass. “I was in bed, so maybe we could talk more tomorrow?”

  “Do y-y-you like him?”

  Little protective Dean. Always looking out for her. “I like him, yes, and I care about his daughter. I don’t want anything to happen to her. The man who took her is crazy. I hope he gives her back unharmed.”

  Dean crossed the room to the door, but hesitated, rocking from side to side. “C-c-crazy?” He paused. “You s-s-sleeping in the bed with him?”

  “No!” Sarah chuckled and crossed her arms.

  “You don’t need me?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You go home and get some rest.” She waited for him to finish his glass of milk.

  He wiped his milk mustache with the back of his hand and placed his glass in the sink.

  She put her hand on his arm and drew him into an embrace. He stiffened as usual. “Everything is fine with me, protective one. There’s no need to worry.”

  #

  Five minutes after Dean had left, Sarah still sat at the kitchen desk in front of her laptop worried about him. He’d seemed off. An uneasy feeling edged in her mind, prodding and invading all other thoughts. She tried reading her e-mail, but couldn’t concentrate. How long had Dean been in a funk? What had triggered his stuttering? There were too many similarities between Dean and the vigilante. Had there been guilt in her brother’s eyes? Was he hiding something?

  Beauty whinnied from the barn again, startling her. Sarah rose to look out the window toward the barn. A light was on. Dean must have gone in to get something and forgotten to turn it off. Or was he still out there?

  She pulled on her boots, grabbed a sweater and a flashlight off the hook, and headed out. She’d never seen Dean so possessed about protecting her. Was there something more troubling him? Maybe their father’s death had triggered his weird behavior. If she didn’t find him in the barn maybe she’d take a walk to his cabin.

  Darn, it was so dark and it smelled like rain. No moon out tonight. She flicked on the flashlight and shone it on the gravel in the driveway until she reached the barn, then headed straight to Beauty’s stall. The horse nickered and came to her, jutting her head toward the rail.

  Sarah rubbed her cheek. “You okay, girl?”

  Beauty smacked her lips. Nothing looked amiss.

  She walked across the barn to where she stored the hay bales and saw something out of the corner of her eye—a backpack. Dean’s backpack, lying behind the feed bin. Why had he left it there?

  “Dean?” She turned in circles listening and waiting, but there was no sign of him. The bag had been across his shoulder at the house. Why would he have left it there? He’d need it for work tomorrow. It was what he packed his lunch in every day. Why had he been carrying it? She’d have to ask him.

  She stooped to retrieve the bag and hiked it over her shoulder, shocked at how heavy it was. It clattered like metal against metal and must have weighed fifteen pounds. What the heck did he have in there?

  She stopped, set it on the ground, unclasped the buckle, and dumped its contents. Thin rubber tubes, plastic gloves, a vial of medicine, large surgical scissors, several needles and long scalpels, and a box of baggies spilled out in front of her. Her hand moved to her open mouth, covering a silent scream. Her fingers trembled.

  Oh, no! She stood, backing away from the contents, stunned. Her mouth gaped. Dean, oh Dean, what have you done?

  That’s when it hit her. If Dean was the guy maiming sex offenders, then he had
Quinn too. No! Why, Dean, why? Her whole body shook.

  She sprinted out the barn the same way she’d entered, then paused in the damp air. The wind whipped her hair across her face. It had started to rain. She glanced up at the house and saw Brett’s silhouette at the desk in the kitchen. He must have awoken.

  What should she do? She cried, torn. If she told Brett, would he understand? No, he wouldn’t. He’d be enraged. He’d lose it, and if Quinn was at the cabin he’d probably shoot first and ask questions later. Dealing with Dean took experience, a counselor’s tactics. She had to go alone. She’d talk sense into her brother and bring Quinn back to Brett. If Quinn was there. She had to be there. Dean would listen to her.

  She headed around the side of the barn and tromped up the hill, through the cornfields, toward the guesthouse, the wind swallowing her breath and the rain spitting on her face. “I’m coming, Quinn.”

  But dread filled her. What if he’d taken Quinn someplace else? Why would he do this? Now he’d have to go to jail for life. There was no way out.

  Oh, Dean, I can’t protect you this time.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brett woke to Max’s low growl. “Huh?” His eyes fluttered open. Where was he? Why was he lying in a bed with all his clothes on? He shot up, flinging the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side. He set his feet, still in socks, on the floor and scanned the room.

  Frilly hats with long ribbons hung on the wall he faced. A white eyelet bedspread and monogrammed shams with the initials SSS adorned the bed. A lit clock on the nightstand read 11:45 p.m. An antique white desk sat in the corner, opposite a chest of drawers.

  Everything came flooding back. Ali, Quinn, Sarah. He was in Sarah’s home. How could he have fallen asleep? His heart raced. He listened. Max stood on the bed, tilting his head and watching the closed door.

  Brett reached over and rubbed the dog’s ears. “What is it, boy? You hear something?” Brett unclipped his cell phone and pressed the button on the bottom to light it, but nothing happened. It was dead? No! How long had it been dead? He’d forgotten to charge it. He hit the palm of his hand to his head. How could he have been so stupid?

  How many calls had he missed? What if Quinn had tried to reach him?

  He leaned over and shoved his feet into his shoes, not bothering to tie them. Max leaped off the bed and shook from head to tail.

  In two wide strides Brett opened the door and tiptoed down the hall. Which way was out? He couldn’t remember. His sense of direction sucked. A soft light came from a room across the hall. He peered inside and saw an empty bed in a green-painted room. The bedclothes were thrown back as if someone had slept there but gotten up. Sarah?

  He turned toward the other hallway, hoping it led to the kitchen, but stopped when he noticed a painting on the wall: a picture of a woman who strongly resembled Sarah. Was it her mother? She had the same deep-set eyes as Sarah’s, but they weren’t as large. Her smile drew him in like the Mona Lisa, watching him, following him, and tempting him to stay with her. No wonder the chief had been so enamored with her.

  Something about this woman’s drooping eyes made her seem lonely, as if she were trapped inside herself. He’d seen the same look on Sarah’s face—the one that made him want to know her better, learn her secret. His eyes dropped to the bottom of the painting where her hand rested, next to the artist’s signature: Sarah S. Samuel. Sarah was also an artist?

  Where was she? “Sarah?”

  No answer. Max padded by his side.

  He went to the kitchen. She wasn’t there either, but her computer whirred from her desk, and he spotted her iPhone charger. Thank God! He plugged his phone in and looked out the window. A light shone from the barn. She must have gone out. He’d give his phone two minutes to charge, listen to his messages, then leave.

  Wait, why hadn’t he heard his phone ding with messages? He picked it up and realized it had shut off, so he turned it on again. Within seconds it beeped from messages and a text. He sank into the chair, hurrying to see them. Had Quinn called?

  Max sighed and curled up under the desk.

  One text was from Clay: They found another cache treasure. Need to talk to you. Call me.

  Three missed calls! He moved to the voice mail screen. Were they from Quinn? It didn’t look like it. None were blocked numbers. He recognized Clay’s number, his parents’, and his ex-mother-in-law’s. He clicked on his father’s message first. “If you need anything let us know. We’re praying for Quinn and Ali.” Ali? Wow, his father had come a long way.

  The next message was from Ali’s mother. “Where should they send Ali’s body? Was she an organ donor?”

  What? Ali had died? The room spun. Ali was gone? No! His ears rang and he felt numb. Why did she have to die? He pounded his fist on the desk and dropped his head into his hands, tears spilling.

  Max jumped and whined and poked his nose in Brett’s face, licking his master’s tears as if he could take away Brett’s pain.

  “Why? Why did this have to happen?” he shouted, choking at the lump in his throat.

  Max whined and cocked his head to the side.

  As much as Brett had loathed Ali’s issues, she was the only mother Quinn had known. Quinn loved her mother. How was he going to explain this to her? If he ever found her. Tears fell. He knew Ali’s condition had been critical, but still—he hadn’t expected this. Everything was spiraling out of control.

  He tried to catch his breath, knowing he had to find Quinn. He had to hold on to hope, get a grip and try to keep it together. Quinn, where are you? He pressed the button to play Clay’s message, the screen blurry from his tears.

  Max returned to his snooze position under the desk.

  Clay said, “Man, where are you? We’re trying to pull this case together. Are you okay? We got another tip from a few geocachers. They saw a guy in a blue truck, an older model, maybe a 1995 Toyota, just tonight, carrying a backpack and leaving the geo-site, the one that contained the last prize. They remembered parts of the plate number. We’re looking them up right now. Did you know that Sarah’s father died three weeks ago? Levi Samuel. Officer Hudson had his coffin opened. He’s the dead guy who’s missing his dick.”

  What? Brett’s stomach twirled. His heart raced. Nausea burned his throat. He felt like vomiting. His attention shot out through the window to where he thought Sarah had gone. He’d been right to assume Dean was involved. Did that mean Sarah was involved too?

  Something moved behind him, and then out of the corner of his eye. Max growled. Brett reached for his gun, his heart racing, but just as he turned to see who approached, someone hit him over the head. Pain shot down to his spine like an electric bolt. He moaned and fell, his face smacking against the tiled floor.

  No! Not now. I need to find Quinn. Blackness enveloped him as he thought about Sarah, how wrong he’d been to trust her, and what a fool he’d been. Now he’d never find Quinn in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sarah sprinted up the hill toward the guesthouse, through the cornfields, the rain matting the hair against her face. Why had Dean snapped? When had he gone off the deep end? Little brother Dean. She should have realized something wasn’t right with him. It was her job to notice behavioral problems. She was trained to see these things, to see people who were emotionally and mentally unstable. But she didn’t understand. Why now? Their father was finally gone. Why would Dean be struggling now?

  More questions than answers rushed through her mind. She smelled logs burning in his fireplace—pine and earthy—before she turned the corner and actually saw the smoke billowing from the cabin’s chimney. Why would he want heat in the summer? At least it wasn’t coming from the house. Her heart raced, keeping rhythm with her breathing. She swallowed to moisten her throat.

  As she darted into the clearing and approached the house, she noticed the front door wide open. Heat from the fireplace charged her as she entered. She shook the rain off her face and shoulders. Right away she saw the change in t
he room. Just like him, his house was a wreck too. Typically Dean kept everything in order, but now the living room furniture had been moved around with two chairs upturned, magazines and papers were scattered across the floor, the drapes were drawn closed, and the television blared. Dean never kept the TV on loud. He didn’t like loud noises.

  When was the last time she’d visited him? She couldn’t remember. It should have been more often, more recent. She crossed the room and turned the television off.

  “Dean? Quinn?”

  Nothing.

  Frantic, she spun in circles afraid to turn her back, unsure of what to expect, unsure of where Dean had gone. “Dean?” she cried.

  She opened the drapes a few feet, enough to check behind them and confirm that Quinn wasn’t hiding there.

  The rain hurled against the roof of the house. An ember crackled.

  Sarah inched toward the kitchen. Piles of dirty dishes littered the table and the countertop. Dried macaroni and cheese sat in a pan on the stove. She clasped her hand over her mouth, quieting her gasp. Dean never left the kitchen dirty. He was obsessive about cleanliness.

  “Quinn, it’s me, Dr. Sarah. You can come out now.” She ran back to the living room, frantic. “Dean?” Where had he gone?

  Thunder crackled and Sarah jumped, her hands trembling. Lightning lit up the trees outside the window and Dean appeared in the doorway, anger and mud splashed across his face, a wooden bat in his hand.

  Sarah screamed.

  Dean leaned over as if trying to catch his breath, like he’d been running.

  She froze. Her heart pounded and dread filled her. Had he hurt Quinn? “What’s the bat for, Dean?” Her voice quivered.

  He looked at the bat like he hadn’t realized it was in his hand and dropped it on the porch like a burning stick. He twisted the bottom of his shirt and shrugged. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. His eyeballs spiraled in two opposite directions, giving her the feeling that his brain chemistry was seriously out of whack.