Nurse Ellerby cocked her head. “I don’t understand. You didn’t know? He got a phone call an hour ago, said he was told to go home, that he was off duty because John Doe was an FBI case now. He stopped by the desk to tell us Ms. Moody was with John Doe.”
Savich came over to Sherlock and Nurse Ellerby. He knew who had called off the guard. He felt such rage at Mayer it was a good thing for Mayer that he wasn’t there. He’d bet Mayer had been watching baseball, drinking a beer, when he’d decided this was how he’d get back at Savich, not a thought in his head about John Doe’s safety.
Of course Mayer hadn’t called Savich, but he had to know he could be in real trouble if he didn’t make any effort to contact him. Savich scrolled quickly through his emails. Sure enough, there was a late email to him from the CAU secretary, Shirley, informing him Detective Mayer from Metro had awakened her, told her she needed to let Savich know that since John Doe was an FBI case now, he was pulling the Metro officer off guard duty.
Savich was still so angry, his hand was shaking as he punched in Jimmy Maitland’s number. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Maitland answered on the third ring, sounding like a bear pulled out of hibernation. “What’s the matter?”
Savich told him what Mayer had pulled, and what had happened, which brought Maitland straight out of bed. Maitland’s anger was legendary, and Savich found it calmed him knowing his boss would see Mayer got what he deserved. Should he suggest that a firing squad sounded good? If not a firing squad, then a solid street fight, nothing off-limits. Maitland asked for more details, then said, “I’ll have two agents guarding John Doe around the clock, beginning now.”
He looked up to see Kara and Sherlock standing over John Doe, Kara holding his limp hand. He heard her say, “He’s so very quiet.” She looked over at Savich. “When that man came in I saw he wasn’t wearing rubber-soled shoes and knew something was very wrong. And that the police officer was gone.”
Sherlock hugged Kara to her side. “Believe me, that won’t happen again.”
Sherlock saw Dillon slowly nod. She saw the pulse pounding in his throat, knew something bad had happened that had made him really angry. It had to do with the missing guard.
20
DANIEL BOONE NATIONAL FOREST
EARLY TUESDAY MORNING
Cam heard a noise, only a slight rustling sound, and instantly awoke, her Glock in her hand. She looked through the netting of her bivvy sack into the darkness and made out a man’s shadowed face inches from her nose. She almost screamed.
“Morning, Special Agent, it’s me, Jack. Time to rise and shine.”
She wanted to clock him for scaring her. “I could have shot you, idiot.” She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, he’d turned away to wake up Chief and Duke. There was an urgency, a near crackling of energy in him, and she felt herself responding to it. Jack turned on his headlight. “I’ve checked; there’s no one nearby,” he said. “Safe to use these now. There’ll be enough light in about fifteen minutes to look for their tracks.”
After an oatmeal and coffee breakfast and a quick wash in the cold creek, they moved out along Denny Branch, slowing now and then to walk upslope in search of tracks. Even close to the creek, where they believed Manta Ray’s group should have passed, they had to slow enough to study the terrain for any sign of another human’s passing. They finished off their breakfasts with power bars and drank from their canteens as the temperature slowly climbed under a brilliant morning sun. They saw deer, a fox, and three squirrels staring down on them from a dogwood branch, but no tracks.
At eight o’clock straight up, Jack peeled off one more time away from the creek and upslope into the trees. He saw a set of boot prints and a crushed shrub. He felt a surge of excitement, called out, “Come look.”
They gathered around Jack, saw the boot prints heading east. “They’ve been walking up here, parallel to the creek.”
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Duke said. “Still, I guess it makes sense. It’s an easier route, with enough cover to reduce the chance of being seen. You’re right, Jack, they’re going east, up toward the ridge. I hope they don’t hook up with a hiker trail. What made you come this far up, Jack?”
Jack never looked up from the tracks. “We should have seen their tracks by now if they’d been hiking along the creek.” He shaded his eyes, looked upward. “I can’t see them going all the way up to the ridge, though, unless they have to for some reason we don’t know.” He pointed. “See how one set of prints is weighted on the right foot. I think Manta Ray is limping in those new hiking boots. The other two tracks show an even stride, and they’re taking their time.” Jack looked over at Cam, grinned. “We’re going to catch them.”
Duke had walked ahead, studying the tracks. “My guess is they passed here before dark last night. They had to come down close to the creek to get a quicker crossing over to Indian Creek Road—that’s Highway 490. They’ll have wanted to get over it as close to dark as possible, less chance of being seen. Once they got past there, they’d be in less-populated country, and that’s where they’ll have stopped for the night.” Duke rose, wiped his hands on his pants. “If we hurry it up, we’ll get to Highway 490 in about fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s make it ten,” Jack said. “From here it’ll be easy to keep the tracks in sight.” He took the lead, jogging at a smooth, steady pace.
Ten minutes later, they reached Rockcastle River, and once across, they reached Highway 490. They saw one car cruise by but no one else, no campers, no hikers, only a lone doe leading her fawn across the road.
Jack pulled out the sat phone, handed it to Duke. “Time to contact your rangers, tell them we’ve tracked them to the highway and we’ll be picking up their trail on the other side. Chief, go ahead and check in with your deputies, tell them we’re going to be moving north from the highway. They need to focus their patrols on the roads they can get to north of here.”
After Chief and Duke took turns with the sat phone, they crossed the highway to find the trail again. It was the same kind of terrain, shrubby, with sparse trees, an occasional maple thicket. They walked along the creek, where the trees and vegetation grew thicker. Still no tracks.
Cam realized she’d stopped hearing any birds or small animals, only the rustling wind in the trees. It was as if they sensed something dangerous in their midst and were lying low.
Suddenly Jack held up his fist, stopped, went down on his haunches. Cam crouched down beside him. Duke nearly ran into her. “What? What is it?”
“Something’s not right. Breathe in the air.”
He was right. Cam breathed in deeply and smelled something dark and rancid that grabbed her by the throat. She whispered, “It’s blood.”
Duke pointed. “Over there, under that scrub oak.”
They found a young man, lying on his back, covered with oak leaves and a couple of stray small leafy branches. They knew he was dead before they pushed the leaves off his gray slack face.
“He’s not more than twenty,” Chief said. Out of habit, he touched his fingers to the pulse in the boy’s neck. There was nothing. He crossed himself, said a prayer.
Cam picked up broken sunglasses that lay near his curled left hand. She said, “They stabbed him in the heart and covered him with leaves.”
Jack said, “And left him to be scavenged by animals. Didn’t want to take the time to bury him.”
Duke found his wallet in his back pocket. “James Delinsky, twenty-one, from Richmond, Virginia. His student ID’s from Virginia Tech.”
Cam leaned down and closed his lids. “I’m sorry, James,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”
Chief was already back on his sat phone. He handed it to Duke to describe the exact location. They were near enough to the highway for his deputies to come in on foot. There would be no sirens, no helicopter for Manta Ray’s group to hear.
Chief handed Jack the sat phone. “This really is sick, pisses me off. No reason to kill anyone; he was j
ust a kid.”
Cam looked up at Jack. He was staring down at the young man. Jack’s face was expressionless, but she knew he was deeply angry. If Manta Ray had appeared at that moment, she wondered if Jack would kill him without hesitation. She wondered what she would do.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Chief said. “My nephew, Billy, is about his age, loves to hike around here. It could have been him.” He added, “Standard procedure is to stay with him until our people arrive, but not this time. The best thing we can do for this young man is to find his killers.” He pulled out his sleeping bag and laid it over James Delinsky. He placed rocks on the sleeping bag to keep the animals away.
Chief was frowning. “Too bad we can’t plan on killing Manta Ray. I’d sure like to save the taxpayers some money.”
Cam said, “Sorry to say but this is bigger than Manta Ray, Chief. We need to find out who’s behind Manta Ray and get them all.”
They pressed on toward the northwest, crossed Park Cemetery Road up into Horse Lick Creek. There were tracks there, where the group had stopped to fill their canteens. Duke said, “Look. Manta Ray is really limping now. He took off his left boot, waded in the water to cut the pain. I don’t think they’ll be able to stay in this rough terrain for much longer. They’ll have to move back up over the hills—it’s the easiest way north.”
Duke took off his sunglasses and looked east, then spread his map on the ground. “Here we are. I think they’ll cut off where the creek bends here and climb up over Bethel Ridge to avoid the main road. That’ll eventually get them to Gravel Lick Creek. It’s tough going at first, but then it eases up.”
They moved quickly toward the ridge, over terrain that was rough and steep at first. Boulders and rock faces bordered crevices and deep gullies gouged out as if by a giant’s hand. The rising heat sapped their energy. Cam wondered if Jack was part mountain goat as she struggled to keep up, sometimes jogging, sometimes crawling, aware only of her own hard breathing and the crunch of her boots on the rocky ground.
Jack gave a low whistle and gathered them around a set of Manta Ray’s erratic tracks, showed them where he had stopped and sat down, forcing the other two to wait for him.
“We’re gaining on them every minute,” Jack said. “We’ll see if we can spot them from the top of Bethel Ridge. What’s beyond the ridge, Duke?”
Duke said quietly, “The small town of Sandy Gap, and an elementary school.”
21
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
TUESDAY MORNING
Sherlock and CARD agent Connie Butler made good time to Baltimore through the heavy traffic. Connie zipped her bright red Mini Cooper into an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Mount Clare section and parked across the street from a Victorian town house painted white with green trim, its blue window boxes filled with red and white petunias. Sherlock had spent the driving time filling Connie in on everything they knew about John Doe’s break-in at Kara’s house on Sunday and the attempt on his life the night before.
Connie Butler cut the engine and turned to Sherlock, smiling. “And here you are ready to go again on about three hours’ sleep.”
On cue, Sherlock yawned. She pulled a small thermos out of her briefcase, took a long drink of Dillon’s rich black special brew, and basked in the feel of the caffeine zinging through her bloodstream. “That’ll pick me right up. I’m fine. Tell me, what’s your bet about what we’re going to find here?”
Connie said, “Sorry, Sherlock, it’s possible Sylvie Vaughn knows something about Alex’s kidnapping. I know you’re convinced John Doe is also connected, but I’ve got to tell you I’m not ready to make that leap even though someone tried to kill him last night. One thing I find strange is that Kara was in his room at all, given she claims she never saw him before he broke into her house on Sunday. Do you know what that’s all about?”
Sherlock knew Connie was a twenty-five-year FBI veteran, five of them with the CARD team. She’d seen most of everything, Sherlock imagined, and yet she was having trouble getting her mind around how much more this case was than a simple kidnapping. Many of the pieces seemed unrelated, Sherlock would be the first to admit that, but to her, they would eventually all tie together. She just didn’t know exactly how yet. She said slowly, “I think Kara feels some kinship to him since Alex was taken. It’s a pity John Doe wasn’t coherent enough to tell her what kind of danger they were in. I’ve never believed in coincidences, Connie, and our situation is loaded with them. My gut is shouting that Sylvie Vaughn isn’t as innocent as Kara believes she is about what happened to her nine months ago. Will you play that idea out with me in there?”
“Of course. Look, if it turns out Sylvie Vaughn is involved in any of this, she wasn’t ever Kara’s friend and she deserves whatever comes. You want to take the lead, or should I?”
Agent Connie Butler looked like a grandmother, her gray hair cut short, no muss, no fuss, no makeup on her pretty face, ready to pass out homemade cookies to the neighborhood kids. Sherlock grinned at her. “Why don’t I start and you can jump in.”
Connie unfastened her seat belt. “Fair enough. There’s a Jaguar parked in the driveway. Kara told you Vaughn works from home, right?”
“Yes, and that’s her car. Sylvie Vaughn writes a Monday/Thursday women’s fashion blog—what women should wear to make them look good given their budget, fashion tips, makeup, the right hairstyle, you get the idea. She does a once-weekly YouTube production. Kara says she never appears on-screen; she’s the voice in the background. She brings on women of all ages and body types to model clothes she’s selected for them that make the most of their assets. She’s big on emphasizing everyone’s assets. She gives advice depending on their age and the impression they want to make, and so on. Kara says she’s very popular.”
Connie said, “Now that I knew. Kara told Bolt Haller and me about her show at the hospital. It’s called Cycling Madness—I know, weird name, like those book titles that have nothing to do with what’s inside the covers. I watched a couple of the shows on YouTube yesterday. She’s good, Sherlock; she’s been on for a couple of years now and still growing.”
“I should have done that myself,” Sherlock said, and nodded toward the door. “Kara said Josh, the husband, drives a BMW and works for an investment firm, Ely and Briggs. Did Kara tell you she’d met Vaughn by chance when she came to a showing of Kara’s painting at the gallery where she worked in downtown Baltimore? That they became best friends very quickly?”
“Yes, she mentioned it. Are you thinking Sylvie Vaughn had a motive, that she made friends with Kara on purpose?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know Kara didn’t accidently get pregnant at her party. Let’s go see what she has to say.” As Sherlock clicked open her seat belt and opened the car door, Connie’s cell rang. Sherlock turned to see her looking at the screen. “Gotta take this. Go ahead, Sherlock, I’ll be right after you.”
Sherlock expected Sylvie Vaughn to be a walking advertisement of good taste and appropriate fit and style, in short, to have made spectacular use of her assets. Instead, a very tall, stick-thin woman, in her midthirties, opened the door, dressed in capri black tights and a short stretchy black top that showed every muscle and bone. She wore her straight dark hair parted on the side and falling lank on either side of her long face to her shoulders, and glasses too big for her thin face. Sherlock blinked, smiled, and introduced herself. “Sylvie Vaughn?”
“Yes.” She looked down at a thin wrist sporting both a black Fitbit and a black iWatch. “I’m working. It’s very early. I’m sorry, but who are you and what do you want?”
Sherlock introduced herself, handed Sylvie Vaughn her creds.
She raised a black eyebrow. “FBI? What is this? I don’t understand—oh, you probably want to speak to my husband, Josh. He’s not here. He’s at work, an investment firm, no doubt fast-talking a hapless client into buying God only knows what. Did he get himself into trouble?” She sighed. “All right, come in and tell me what my lam
ebrain husband has done.”
Sherlock looked back to see Butler still speaking into her cell, her tablet in one hand, writing as she listened. “My partner will be along shortly.”
Sylvie stepped back, waved her in. “I’m in dire need of coffee. I’ll get you a cup, too.” Sylvie Vaughn waved a hand around the living room. “Don’t mind the mess, the housekeeper is coming this morning, bless her well-paid heart. I didn’t even make up the bed, not that I ever do, such a waste of time.”
Sherlock stepped into a white world filled with dark blue furnishings, from dark blue draperies to dark blue scatter rugs on the floor. Clothing, underwear, shoes—from sandals to six-inch ankle breakers—covered every surface. Dozens of magazines were piled up next to a dark blue easy chair with several, hopefully empty mugs piled on top.
She smiled at Sylvie. “I love housekeepers.”
Sherlock watched her shove away sample fabrics stacked on a dark blue leather chair, frown, and rub her finger over a damp-looking stain on its arm. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee, and you can tell me how much I’m going to have to put out on a lawyer this time. Please tell me he didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not that I know of,” Sherlock said and watched Sylvie stride out of the living room. Sherlock waited where she was, getting a feel for the place. She wondered what Josh the fast-talking husband thought about this room. Not a minute later, Sylvie returned carrying two mugs. Before she could hand over one, Sherlock pulled out her cell, called up John Doe’s photo. “Do you recognize this man?”
22
Sylvie looked closely at the photo. “He looks like he’s asleep. Please don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“No, he’s not dead. Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before. Why? Who is he?”
“He couldn’t be a friend of your husband’s? Perhaps one of the neighbors?”
“No, or I’d have seen him.” She thrust the mug at Sherlock. “I hope you didn’t want milk or sugar. I’m out of both.” She looked around the large living room with a dispassionate eye. “You’re lucky I work in the back, otherwise there wouldn’t be anyplace to sit. Now, what do you think Josh has done?”