Cache a Predator Read online

  “What?”

  She lowered her voice. “Dad’s sick.”

  Brett’s heart skipped a beat. “He’s sick? With what?”

  “He didn’t want me to tell you, but I have to now. You need to know. Dad has pancreatic cancer.” Her voice trembled. Mom had never been real strong or independent. She leaned on Dad for almost everything. “We have to spend the next few days at the hospital for his treatments. He wanted to skip them to take Quinn, but I told him no.”

  Suddenly, the only sound in the room was the clock ticking. Everything stood still. His father was older, but old enough to die? And had he heard her right? He wanted to take Quinn? That was crazy. “When was he diagnosed?”

  “A few weeks ago. He made me promise not to tell you.”

  No wonder she’d seemed a little on edge the last time he spoke with her.

  Had his father really wanted to take Quinn? Or had he said that only because he knew he couldn’t? Was it possible he’d changed? “You’re right, Mom. He needs his treatments, and if you’re going to be at the hospital, it’s not a convenient time to take Quinn. She’ll be okay for a few days. I should be able to get her next week, once they petition the judge.”

  “Why won’t they give her to you now?”

  Brett gave her a condensed version of the protective order, what had happened with Ali, and how it was going to take a few days for the report to be presented to the judge. He didn’t tell his mom what CPS had said when they came to assess his flat, that it had been too small and not enough privacy for a man with a daughter. She didn’t need anything else to worry about. He broke out in a sweat thinking about where he was going to move, how he was going to afford it, and about Quinn living in a stranger’s home, but what else could he do? And there wasn’t anything his mother could do either.

  #

  The next morning, before five, Brett made his bed, tucking the corners in and obsessively smoothing out the pillows, thinking of Quinn. Had she slept okay last night? Was she scared? Was she being well taken care of?

  After checking his cell phone for calls and finding none, he took a shower, hoping the water would revive him, give him the energy he needed after tossing and turning all night. He dressed in plain clothes instead of his uniform. Afterward, he busied himself in the kitchen, washing dishes, but stopped and paced. He couldn’t focus. He found himself washing the same dish for so long his fingertips were beginning to shrivel. On the counter was the Notice of Temporary Removal of Child and Right to Hearing form. It was the same one Peggy had left at Ali’s. He still couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Peggy and Sarah had only stayed a half hour—long enough to assess whether Brett’s place was a safe environment for Quinn. Of course, he didn’t have anything to hide. It was neat and clean and void of any liquor. Heck, he couldn’t even go out for a beer with the guys anymore without feeling repulsed. The smell of alcohol reminded him of Ali and made his temper flare.

  Overall, there were no safety issues, but they said he’d have to get a bigger place to be granted custody. Since Quinn was a girl, she needed her own room, and since his entire apartment was only one room, it wouldn’t work. There was no privacy.

  Where was he supposed to get the money for a bigger place? He clenched his jaw, picked up the dish in the sink, and was about to throw it across the room, but stopped. He sighed heavily, put his head in his hands, and rubbed his temples. Getting angry wouldn’t help. He’d only have another mess to clean up.

  As he continued with the dishes, visions of Sarah seeped into the corners of his mind. It had been difficult to read her. Had she known something more about Ali’s brother? Should he go to Mark’s house and have a chat with him, find out what really happened yesterday? If he was with Ali when Quinn was locked in her room, he might know something. Could Brett trust himself not to lose his temper? He and Mark had gotten into it before. The guy thought his sister was perfect. What if Brett wasn’t prepared for what Mark had to say and rage got the better of him? He’d totally screw up his chances of getting Quinn. But still, he had to know.

  He dried his hands on a towel and glanced at his watch: 6:50. Just as he reached for his phone to call Clay, Clay’s number appeared on the screen. Brett answered. “Hey.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Washing dishes. Waiting for my appointment to see Quinn’s counselor at ten. Any word on Max?”

  “Nothing yet. Sorry, man. I wanted to check in on you—see how you’re doing, give you an update on the whacker.”

  “The who?” Brett set the towel on the rack to dry. “Oh yeah, never mind. My head’s mush.”

  “I’m in your driveway. I’ll be right in.”

  Brett met him at the front door.

  Clay stood on the porch in full uniform, his squad car parked out front. He carried a few manila folders under his arms and two coffees in his hands. He plowed through the door with the posture of a rhino, his large dark frame filling the entryway. Clay set the coffee and folders on the kitchen table and gave Brett his usual animal-type hug. “I’m praying for you, man.”

  Brett wished he had Clay’s strength—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He’d been a rock, always reminding Brett of his own lack of faith. Brett wished he could be as calm and sure of God as Clay always seemed to be.

  Brett fell into a chair, shook his head, and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “I think Mark was at the house yesterday.”

  “Ali’s bro?” Clay scooted a chair out and sat down in front of the folders.

  Brett nodded. “I want to pay him a visit, but if I find out he’s hiding something, I’m afraid I’ll kick his ass and blow my shot at custody. Do you think you could go see him at the bank, rattle him a little?”

  Clay nodded. “Sure. He works at First National, right?”

  Brett filled him in on the details. “Find out why he was at Ali’s and if he has the dog.”

  Clay said, “I’ll go after I leave here and get back to you.” He slid one of the folders across the table. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m hanging in there. All I can do is wait.” Brett told him about Peggy’s visit and how he had to move to a larger place.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Brett frowned. “I’m not sure I can do anything. I’ll need a security deposit, and I don’t have the cash.”

  “Why don’t you check out Tudor Apartments? They’ve had enough crime over there, they’d probably pay you to stay there.” Clay chuckled. “Having your cop car out front might cut down on incidents, and maybe they’d waive your deposit.”

  “Thanks. That’s a great idea.”

  “Have you talked to Ali?”

  Brett shook his head. “She disappeared, won’t even answer her phone, and she needs to be at this appointment with me at ten, but shoot, if she doesn’t show, it might help my situation.”

  Clay patted Brett’s back. “I agree. Let’s hope she doesn’t show.”

  Brett opened the folder. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the dirt on our sex offender, Jake Hunter.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Seems he has quite a reputation. Hangs out at the local bar. He served four years at Clarion County Jail for doing that kid.”

  “Pedophile?” Brett studied the photo of the man.

  “Yep.”

  Brett whistled. He stared at the photo—troubled eyes, mustache. But if he’d seen this guy on the street he would never have known he was a convicted sex offender. Too bad offenders couldn’t be forced to wear a tattoo across their forehead labeling them a perv. “What about the kid he did? Anyone from the family hate him enough to do this?”

  “Not that I could find. The kid he was convicted of molesting would only be twelve right now, and he’s moved to Ohio with his family. I’ve got Officer Holmes on that—trying to locate them.”

  Brett studied the profile sheet, pretending to care because he still had a job to do, and the diversion was healthy, but trying to focus on what Clay was saying was
difficult, at best. “So our pecker-whacker has a thing against pervs. That’s not a bad thing. I kinda like this guy.” Brett grinned.

  Clay’s radio squawked, and he turned the volume down. “There was another victim last night.”

  “Who?”

  “His name was Terry Bull. A low-life registered sex offender living with his mother.” Clay handed Brett the other file.

  Brett opened it to find a profile sheet very similar to the first one.

  “What happened?”

  “Same thing. Best we can tell is that the whacker went to great lengths to stop the bleeding with his little tourniquet. I think he wants his victims to live without their rods for a while.” Clay snorted a couple of times.

  “Has anyone found it?”

  “Not yet, but we’re searching cache sites.”

  “I saw that there are close to five hundred in our county!”

  “Yeah, I saw that too. Let’s hope he’s not going to hide the next one in one of those places. We’ll have to recruit every officer within a hundred-mile radius to help cover them. Chief put me in charge of organizing a team that will rotate some of the larger sites. Some of them are micro sites, not big enough to hold the loot.” Clay blotted his forehead with a napkin, absorbing the perspiration lining his brow. “The blood work on Jake Hunter came back. Seems he had high levels of ketamine in his body. It’s a drug used to put patients under before surgery. We only found a few fibers at the site. Not sure they’ll amount to much. This person seems meticulous. Hasn’t left any real clues yet.”

  Brett nodded.

  “We suspect he knocks the victims out with a chloroform rag and then injects them with this drug. They don’t feel a thing until the drugs wear off. Then, wowsa!” He sipped his coffee. “No prints found. The neighbors didn’t see anything either. But two days ago they saw a man in a truck parked across the street, watching the house.”

  “What’d that guy look like?”

  “Thirty-something, balding, wore sunglasses, drove a light-blue truck—older model, lots of dings and dents.”

  “What can I do to help?” Brett needed to stay in the game, keep his mind occupied because eventually he needed to get back to work. Idle time only gave him opportunity to worry about Quinn.

  “Thought you’d never ask. Feel like hiking?” Clay smiled.

  “Where?”

  “There’re a few sites near here. I could use another man on the hunt team. You can use your iPhone to find the coordinates for the cache box. Hand me your phone.” Clay held out his hand and waited.

  Brett took his phone out of the clipped case and handed it to Clay.

  “It’s not every day you can hunt for dicks-in-a-box.” Clay snorted.

  Brett chuckled.

  Clay added. “The media has leaked this, so there’s a good chance there’ll be more geo-hunters looking for caches than ever before. We can’t keep the press out of it. We can’t block off every site, and game players are adding new sites every day.”

  Brett couldn’t believe there were so many geo-hunters in the county when he’d never heard of the sport until yesterday. He moved his chair next to Clay, looking over his shoulder at his iPhone. “Show me what I need to know.”

  #

  After Clay left, Brett searched in the little shed outside his flat for his old hiking boots. He hadn’t worn them in years. He used to hike trails but hadn’t for a long time. He glanced at his watch: 8:05. Maybe he had time to pay Mark a visit first.

  When he saw Max’s spare leash hanging on the wall, an emptiness filled him. Too bad the dog wasn’t here; Brett could use his expert sense of direction. Brett could get lost even if he had a compass.

  Where are you, guy? We miss you.

  The side door into his shed creaked open. “Brett?”

  Brett jumped. Ali stood in front of him. Her short blond hair stood flat on one side and straight up on the other. It looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. Her blue eyes looked almost purple from being bloodshot red. She leaned against the doorjamb as if she might fall over.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.” Tears fell down her face. She wiped them with the back of her trembling hand.

  He should have felt sympathy, but her tears didn’t matter anymore. “Okay. Come into the apartment. Give me a minute to shake the dirt off these boots.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk, but not till later, that’s all. Nowhere right now. We have an appointment with the counselor at ten. I’ve been trying to reach you, but you probably know that. You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”

  She avoided his eyes.

  “That’s typical.” He turned his back to her, walked outside the shed, and hit the boots together, knocking off clumps of dried mud. He hit them with a little more force than necessary, dreading talking to her, knowing she’d probably lie again.

  He left the dirty boots outside his door and invited her in.

  She sat on a kitchen chair, reaching into a pocket for a tissue, while her eyes seemed to roam across the room. “Your place is really tidy.” She balled the hanky in her hand and pressed it against her temple. “I have such a headache.”

  Brett nodded. “Of course you do. You have a hangover.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it.

  She shed more tears and spoke in a whiny voice. “I want to go see the counselor today. What was her name?”

  “Dr. Sarah Grinwald.” He sat across from her. “Tell me who was at the house yesterday.”

  She looked away, swallowed, and met his gaze. “Mark.”

  “Why? What did he want?”

  “I don’t remember. That’s the bad part. I couldn’t wake from my fog.” She hesitated. “But I didn’t want Quinn to see him. I’m not sure if I was dreaming, but I locked Quinn in her room to keep her safe.”

  “Safe from your brother? Why? What did he try to do to her?”

  Ali shook her head and stood, then moved toward the kitchen sink. “Nothing. I don’t remember. Can I have a glass of water?”

  Brett nodded and held his temper in check. She knew. She just didn’t want to tell him. “Help yourself.”

  She opened a cupboard and took out a glass, then poured herself water from the spigot. After that she opened her purse and fumbled through its contents. She finally took out a medicine vial, then threw a pill in her mouth and chased it with a swig of water.

  “What are you taking?”

  “The muscle relaxer for my neck.” She massaged her neck and closed her eyes.

  “Ali, you don’t need those. You need to quit popping pills and drinking. Sleep at night instead of during the day. See a counselor. See someone who can help you.” He tried to say it as gently as he could, but he wanted to shout it at her. He’d said it over and over again for the last year. “How many different drugs are you taking?”

  Her eyes darted out the window and then back to him again—the telltale sign that she was going to lie. “Just this one. I can’t help it. My neck hurts all the time.”

  “Sure it does. You rear-ended someone six months ago. Remember?” He wouldn’t forget. Her insurance had skyrocketed. He sighed. “You need help, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m going to fight for Quinn. It’s not going to be pretty this time. I want you out of her life. For good.”

  Her cries grew louder. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do the best I can. I hate being alone to take care of her and have to work too. I’m in constant pain. All you have to think about is yourself. You never talk to me; you never look at me.”

  “Ali, we’re divorced. I tried for six years to make it work. It’s not my job to make you happy. You are not my responsibility anymore.”

  She reached for his arm. “I need you. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like”—she hesitated and waved her hands at herself—“this. I hate who I’ve become, but it’s like I don’t know how to stop. I’m in pain all the time. It won’t go away. I want to be a good mother.” She stopped and hiccupped a
deep sob.

  He shoved his hands in his pocket. All she did was whine. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ve heard it before. And I’m sorry for you, but your problems aren’t my problem anymore. I don’t understand them, and I don’t have time for them.” Her blubbering tears had worked once. He’d succumbed to her needs and empathized with her pain. He still did, but after being separated from her for months, it was easier to walk away from the guilt.

  He had to force himself to stay calm, refrain from taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. He raised his voice a notch. “Quinn is living with another family—because you neglected her. Do you understand? I can’t accept that—nor should the courts.”

  She reached for his arm and squeezed it. “Please! I promise I’ll quit drinking. I’ll go to AA. I want Quinn back too. She’s everything to me. Please, don’t take her away. I have nowhere to go. My mother won’t let me live with her. Please.”

  Brett unhooked her hand from his arm and lowered his voice. “I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s nonproductive. I’m sorry for you, but I can’t help you. I have to let the natural consequences happen. Go home and get ready, and I’ll pick you up at 9:45. But after that, I’m done!” He turned and stormed out the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dawn showed its pink-clouded face as twenty-two-year old Nikki pleaded with Justin, her boyfriend, who sat eating his breakfast. “Come on. I watched two hours of football reruns with you on Saturday. You said you’d do this with me.”

  Justin sighed and took his last bite of an egg. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  Nikki sat next to him on the sofa tickling his ear with her fingertip. “It’ll be cooler if we go now. Tory said she’s found a hundred and two caches. And hiking is great exercise.”

  Justin smiled at Nikki. “You don’t quit.”

  She bounced toward him like she was cheering for the winning team. “Yay, you’ll do it?”

  Justin stood. “I promised, didn’t I?’

  She clapped and moved across the room to her desk. “I already have an account all set up. I want to find the one I showed you yesterday titled ‘Under the Bridge.’” She opened her laptop and waited for it to boot up. “Bring your iPhone over here so we can program the coordinates.”