Shattered Lives (24 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Wentzville, Missouri

             
He and the rest were pissed as hell.  Their pictures were on CNN and on the network and local stations everywhere.  Dominico had alerted them, so each had taken the necessary precautions to change the way they looked to avoid detection. 

              And move up the timetable in order to tie up the loose ends.  That way, they could disappear for a while before they started it up again.

His blond hair was now black.  Nonprescription contacts changed his blue eyes to brown or something even darker, and like the others, he had let his beard grow, though it was no more than lengthy stubble.  Eventually, he’d color that too.  He stood only five-nine and was slightly built, but in good shape and that would serve him well.

              He had money and weapons and a plan. 

              He pulled to the curb a little less than a half-block away from the house, his Nissan Altima blending in with the neighborhood and the other cars on the street, though there weren’t that many.  The homes here started at the mid-$500K and went up rapidly from there.  They were characterized by long and mostly hidden driveways, sweeping front lawns, exquisite landscaping and most of all, privacy.  Most, if not all, had a home security system, but he wasn’t worried about that. 

He’d been to this neighborhood and this particular house several times, dropping the boy off after a game or practice and had been here for his team’s end of season party.  His biggest problem was that he knew the boy and his family, and they knew him, which was a big problem that could prove to be lethal for him or preferably, them.

              He checked his new looks in the rearview mirror for the fifth or sixth time.

              He stepped out of the car, locking it with that familiar chirping sound and walked quickly, but not too quickly because he didn’t want to draw any attention.  His Sig-Sauer was tucked into his belt at the small of his back underneath a zip-down gray hoodie.  The hood was down, because he thought that wearing the hood might attract unwanted attention.  A suppressor was stashed in the hoodie’s front pocket. 

Taking a direct approach, he walked up the driveway to the backdoor near the three car garage.  As he had hoped, the door was not locked, and he walked in without knocking or ringing the bell.

              He stood in the entryway to get his bearings and listened.  He slipped his weapon from his back waistband and secured the suppressor to it. 

He walked quietly into the empty kitchen and heard sounds coming from the back; a television, most likely in the family room.  A BMW crossover sat in the driveway so he knew at least one of the parents was home, probably the mother, since she worked in real estate and kept irregular hours.  Lucky for him, unfortunate for her.

Three kids lived in the house with both parents: older sister in high school, the boy in middle school, and a younger sister in elementary.  All fresh and pretty and scrubbed and wealthy with the air and sophistication that comes with money.  None of them with any cares or worries. 

Until today.

He kept moving to the front hallway where he locked the front door like he had done with the backdoor.

The mother appeared on the stairs and stopped in mid-step.  Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise.  The man placed a similar O in her forehead, and she tumbled backward and lay sprawled over the top four steps.

“Mom?  What are you doing?”

The high school-aged daughter ran to her mother, and she soon joined her mother in the land of the dead, also with a hole in her head, though hers was just above her ear.

Two shots, two down.

He moved to the family room and found the youngest girl glued to something noisy and obnoxious on Nickelodeon and before she had an opportunity to notice him, he shot her.

Three for three, leaving only the boy, just as he had hoped and planned.

He moved from room to room, clearing the downstairs making sure it was empty and then moved up the stairs, dragging the two dead bodies with him.  He went to the teenager’s bedroom, where he unceremoniously threw them into the closet and shut the door behind him.  At the end of the hallway, he heard the shower running and knew where the boy was.

Perfect for him, not so much for the boy.

He went back downstairs, used a blanket that was thrown on the back of the couch to wrap up the girl and carried her upstairs where she joined her mother and sister in the closet.

He went into the boy’s bedroom.  Shelves were filled with trophies and books.  Posters of soccer and baseball players covered the wall along with a poster of Taylor Swift wearing a milk mustache with the caption that read, ‘Got Milk?’  A laptop sat on a small desk.

He heard the water stop, gave the boy about a minute or two to towel off and then he opened the door, stepped in and said, “Hi Kevin.  It’s been a while.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Waukesha, Wisconsin

             
Graff had read the reports so many times that he could almost recite them word for word.  The problem was that what he had read and had committed to memory was nothing that would lead to whoever was responsible for Stephen’s and Michael’s abduction.

              It came down to seven names on a list plus the goalie coach.  Slim, really slim.  Anorexic.

              He picked up the phone and dialed.

              “Kelliher,” said the tired voice on the other end.

              “Pete, this is Jamie Graff.”

              “Hey, Bud.  How’s it going on your end?”

              “I have two scared kids, three nervous parents, and Stephen’s father who I’m thinking of arresting.”

“On what charge?”   

“Being an asshole.  You have anything?”

              “Hell, I think you have more than I do. I’m sending Skip and Chet back to Chicago.  Dominico had some sort of safe or hole in the floor of one of his bedrooms, and Skip has a hunch that Cochrane might have one too.  If we find it, we might get a lead.  Who knows . . .” he trailed off, and Jamie could hear the doubt in his voice, as if he had said it to convince himself.

              “Hmm.”  Jamie paused and then said, “The boys came up with eight names.  One of them might or might not be the pervert responsible for Stephen’s abduction.  I was wondering if you could run them forward and backward for me.”

              “I’ll get Chet on it right away.”

              There was another pause, a bit too lengthy. 

              “Something else?” Pete asked with hesitancy.

              “Well . . . I wouldn’t want you to do anything illegal, not that the Feebs do anything illegal . . .”

              “Such as?” Pete asked with a laugh.

              “Such as asking the great eye in the sky to check out what Chet might not be able to find.”

              “Billias isn’t really on company payroll.”

              “That gives him latitude.”

              Jamie could hear the wheels turning. 

Pete finally said, “I’ll give him a call with your names.”

              “Thanks.  You get any tips on the photos you released?”

              “About a thousand.  Most of them live right next door to the caller,” Pete said tiredly.  “I don’t know if sending pictures to the press was a good idea after all.”

“Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Sounds suspiciously like, it is what it is.”

Jamie laughed and said, “Something like that.”

“Jamie, something’s been bothering me about this whole case.”

Jamie leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk and said, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t put my finger on it.  Not just Dominico or the ones who got away.  It’s about all the kids.  I’m . . . we’re missing something . . . something we’ve overlooked or not looked at closely enough.”

“Huh.” Jamie had thought it was all buttoned up other than finding Dominico, Stephen’s abductor, and a couple of other perverts.  “Not sure I follow.”

Pete rubbed his flattop, frowned and wished like hell Summer was with him.

“I don’t know . . . I’ll figure it out,” Pete mumbled.

After he hung up, Jamie thought about Pete’s comment and tried to think of other avenues that were either explored or not explored enough.  When nothing came to mind, he reread the paperwork looking for anything that didn’t catch his eye the first ten times he had read it.

And struck out on both counts.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Wentzville, Missouri

             
“Please stop,” Kevin cried.  “I can’t anymore.  Please stop.”

             
For almost three hours, Kevin had been with the man.  He lay on the bed with the man next to him.  The man either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.   

              The man smiled and said, “See, you like this, don’t you?”

              “No, I don’t!” The boy sobbed.

              “Sure you do, Kevin.  All boys do,” the man said soothingly.

              “Please stop!” The boy cried.

              “I’ll tell you what, Kev.  One more time and then we’ll take a break.  I have a job for you anyway.  Okay?”

              “Please . . . no,” the boy said, already knowing the man was going to win again.

              The man got up from the bed, stretched and stared down at the boy.  Kevin wasn’t as cute as Patrick.  Not that he was ugly or even homely.  Not by any means.  By most standards, Kevin was good-looking.  It was just that Patrick was special.  Very special.  But Kevin made up for it in other, better ways.  Some boys are just better equipped than others.  Not fair, but nature isn’t fair and neither is life.  Just ask Kevin’s mother and two sisters.

              The man stretched one more time, scratched lazily at his groin and retrieved the boy’s cellphone from the dresser.  He lay back down on the bed, handed Kevin his phone and reached over to the nightstand and picked up his gun, pointing it at the boy.

              “I want you to call Patrick and invite him over.  You’re going to be very convincing.  You’re not going to give him any hint of me being here.  If you do,” he paused, cocked the pistol and aimed it right Kevin’s forehead and said, “that will be the last thing you ever say to anyone.  Do you understand?”

              “Yes.”

              “Use the speaker so I can hear the conversation.  I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you try anything.  Understand?”

              “Yes.”

              “Okay, get yourself together and quit crying.  I want your best sales job.”

              The boy nodded.

              “Okay, let’s do it.”

              Kevin dialed Patrick’s cell, turned on the speaker and waited.

              “Hi, Kevin,” Patrick said when he saw the caller ID.

              “Hi, Patrick.  What are you doin’ tonight?”

              “I’m at the Holiday Inn across from Six Flags with some friends.  I’m spending the night and then tomorrow we’re spending the day there.  It’s my first trip since . . .” he stopped, not wanting to say it.

              Kevin looked at the man with the gun, unsure of what he should say next.  The man waved his gun and nodded at him.

              “I was hoping you’d come to my house tonight.  You know, like you used to,” Kevin finally said.

              “Sorry, Kevin.  I might be able to when I get back, though,” Patrick said hopefully.

              The boy read the man’s lips and asked, “Who are you with?”

              “Some friends I met after I was rescued.  A kid named Randy, his brother and his dad.  George, and their friend, Dan, and his dad.”

              The man smiled, gave Kevin the cut sign, so Kevin said, “Well okay.  Call me when you get back, okay?”

              “I will.  Sorry about tonight.”

              “Me too,” Kevin said, though he sounded relieved.

              He ended the call and the man took the phone away from the boy and set it on the nightstand, and said, “I want a couple of pictures before I leave, okay?”

              He set the gun on the bed out of Kevin’s reach, grabbed his own phone and took several of the boy as he lay there.

              “Okay, now flip over on your stomach.”

              “Please no!” Kevin sobbed.

              “Don’t worry, I just want some pictures.”

              Kevin rolled over, heard the click of the camera on the phone and saw the flash.  Kevin didn’t notice the man picking up his gun, because he had his head buried into his pillow.

              “Good,” the man said, stroking Kevin’s buttocks.

              Then he put two bullets into the back of Kevin’s head.

              The man decided he’d shower since he’d have at least an hour or two before Kevin’s dad came home from work.  As he stepped into the shower, he was already planning his next move, pleased that he’d have the opportunity to not only get rid of Patrick, but the Indian kid, and Randy and his father.

              Originally, he had planned to spend the night at Kevin’s house.  Not any more, however.  First he’d have to wait for Kevin’s dad to come home from work.  He didn’t like loose ends.