STOLEN (9 page)

While
Marty was on the phone, Jean and Frank took the opportunity to watch the video.
Within seconds, Jean felt bile rise up into her throat, and her face turned a
pasty white. She wanted to scream, “Turn it off!” but she knew whatever
discomfort she was feeling, it needed to take a backseat to the fact there
might be some evidence hidden in the video leading them to the third possible
suspect, the missing weapon, and hopefully some insight into the shooting
itself. She closed her eyes, and she bit down on her lip, trying not to cry as
the little girl was subjected to the horrific acts of one sick pedophile. “Pause
it! She cried out, walking closer to the makeshift screen Frank had set up in
front of the wall.

“Go back about one frame and raise the volume!” She said,
looking at Frank, whose mocha-colored cheeks were stained with dark tears. Frank
didn’t say a word, just hit the slow motion reverse and then hit the play
button. It was hard to make out, but it was obvious to both of the detectives
that Blakey heard something outside the room and stopped what he was doing. He
slowly got off the small cot, leaving the child alone in the room, walking out
of range of the camera, but not out of range of the audio. For a few seconds,
they were able to decipher Blakey engaging in an argument. The detectives could
only make out a few brief seconds of the encounter just before the video went
black. Something or someone must have reached over out of range to turn the
camera off. Jean strained her ears to try and listen to what was going on out
of range of the video. She scratched her head, frustrated at not being able to hear
what was happening. She could definitely make out what she imagined to be male
voices in an argument, but it just wasn’t audible enough. “Do we have the
capabilities to have that audio enhanced?” She turned to Frank.

“I don’t know, Jean, I’ll go down and ask. I need a break
anyway.” She noticed for the first time that he was starting to go grey around
the temples. She flashed back to the wedding picture on his desk, it was taken
in the eighties and his sideburns were at least two inches longer, but
jet-black. She wondered if he was at all tortured that he was getting older and
they were no longer the new kids on the block but the next ones to be put out
to pasture. She decided she really needed to talk to Hope and find out why she,
suddenly, was so obsessed with the mechanics of aging.

“Hey, while you’re at it, see if they found anything on the
hard drive on that laptop!” She called out.

“Yeah, yeah, got it.” He walked out, head down, as if he was
just too tired to turn around, too exhausted emotionally to answer.

With his belly full, he was able to think a little clearer. Just
as he was getting up to pay the check, two uniformed officers were walking in
the door. He played it cool, by tipping his hat, and offered them a “Good
afternoon,” as if he had done it a hundred times before. He knew he needed to
get to the hospital and see what was happening with his brother, but he was
less anxious now. He was lucky enough to overhear some conversations of the
other patrons in the restaurant. The small town’s residents were just abuzz
with news of the murder that occurred in the woods just outside of town.
Apparently, homicides were becoming quite plentiful in the sleepy town and it
was all anyone was talking about. He was able to overhear someone say that the
gunshot wound victim was out of surgery and in recovery. He inconspicuously
tried to eavesdrop, but couldn’t make out whether the person had said the man
was or wasn’t expected to recover. Leaving the pub and walking somewhat
aimlessly, he realized he had to figure out how to get into the hospital and
into his brother’s room without being noticed. The cops were all around the
cabin and searching through the truck so the truck was a wash. If he was going
to have wheels, he was going to have to either steal one or hitchhike his way
around. Hitchhiking didn’t seem like a viable method because he needed to stay
out of sight before some small-town busybody noticed there was a stranger in
town. He tried to make himself invisible as a small group of teenage girls
giggling like a cackle of hyenas pushed past him and entered a convenience
store. He felt a stir in his groin as he admired the backs of the tight jeans
that the girls wore. It had been a long time, but this was no time for him to
get off track, he reminded himself. His brother needed him. Tristan needed him.
He started to cross the street when he noticed the black Harley pulling up to
the gas pump. A tall, skinny kid wearing a black leather jacket got off the
bike and took his helmet off. A mass of black wavy hair fell out and the kid
wiped his brow and pushed the hair away from his eyes. Placing the helmet on
the sissy bar, he swiped a credit card and waited as the gas filled the tank.
He pushed another button and waited for his receipt to come out of the machine.
It never came out of the slot, so the kid headed into the store, leaving the
key in the ignition. The man glanced around and was satisfied when he was sure
no one else was in the vicinity. He casually walked towards the bike, scanning
the area. He stood next to the bike as if he was admiring the late model black-and-chrome-accented
Harley. It looked like it had taken a few hits, and had a few miles behind it,
but clearly someone was taking good care of it. From where he was standing, he
could see the kid still at the register. He was about to walk away, deciding
not to take the chance and steal it, when he noticed the group of girls
surrounding the kid in leather, preventing him from leaving the store. He took
it as a sign. He jumped on the bike and turned the key and hit the clutch. The
back tire spun and squealed, leaving a black skid mark as he took off. He thought
he heard a girl screaming for him to stop, so he turned around. It was one of
the girls he saw walking into the store earlier, the pretty one with long blonde
hair. He kept his eyes on her for just a moment, afraid that he wouldn’t be
able to take his eyes off her. She was about the prettiest thing he had seen in
a long time, but he had other matters to attend to, so he turned back around
and he sped off, the helmet still secured to the sissy bar.

It
was finally beginning to make sense and would account for the missing weapon. There
was another suspect out there. Now Marty wondered if he had identified the man
in the hospital correctly. Was he Troy Blakey or was he the brother Shane
Blakey? If Sanders was right, and they both had stolen identities, who were
they really? Marty walked back to Jean and filled her in on the conversation he
had with Lieutenant Sanders.

“So we don’t know who that is in the hospital. It could be Shane
or Troy?”

Suddenly it hit him. “Not dirty, he wasn’t calling the guy
Dirty, it was Daddy!”

Jean looked up at him, not looking too convinced.

“Maybe. If he were calling him Daddy, well then, that would
make the guy in the hospital Troy Blakey. Is Sanders faxing over pictures of
these guys?”

Just as she got the words out, they heard the fax line’s
shrill tone go off.

Marty started to walk to the machine when his cellphone
rang. He reached into his pocket as he continued to make his way to the fax
machine.

“Keal,” he uttered impatiently.

“Detective Keal, this is Sophie Harris from Child Services. I’m
afraid I have some disturbing news. I just got a call from the foster family. I’m
afraid Tristan took off. We don’t know where he is.”

He could tell by the sound of her voice she was flustered
and probably in a state of panic. She had the responsibility to keep this boy
safe and she had neglected to fulfill that.

Marty looked at Jean and he could tell that she wanted to
ask what was going on, but she waited until he hung up the phone.

“The kid took off. Come on.” Marty turned to Frank who had
come back into the room, “We need to put out an Amber Alert on the kid and get
every available person out there looking for him.” Marty glanced over at the
fax machine and saw the partial face of one of the subjects start to emerge.
“Frank, copy those and text message them to my phone as soon as they’re done.” Marty
didn’t wait to hear him answer as he and Jean hurried out the door.

He contemplated getting a room in a roadside motel, taking a
shower, getting a goodnight’s sleep, but now that he had the bike, he decided
to do some exploring. He wanted to stay close to the hospital, so he followed
an overgrown hiking path through the dense forest behind it. He had some
trouble maneuvering the bike over rocks and sticks, but he managed to keep it
upright. There were a few abandoned hunting shacks scattered in the woods, and
he chose the one covered in moss and ivy growing up the walls. He walked to the
back of the shack and chose to enter through a back window instead of the front
door. He was disappointed to see all the windows were boarded up, but the
boards that covered the windows were rotting out. He grabbed a fallen branch
and tried to use it as a crowbar to pry the wood off. It snapped after the
first try, and he tore up his knuckles when the back of his hand snapped back
and hit the wooden barricade.

His second try was more successful; and he managed to shimmy
through the window and found himself in a fairly good-sized room. He was
thrilled when he saw that the cabin was not completely empty. It had a small
dorm-size icebox, but when he flipped the light switch, he realized there was
no electricity, so it was useless. A narrow bunk bed was pushed up against the
far wall and a musty looking sleeping bag sat on top of it. He walked over to
the small, scratched up porcelain sink that was marred by brown stains circling
the open drain. He reached over and tried to turn on the stainless steel water
faucet. There was no water.

“Shit!”

He turned the handle back to the original position and
decided to explore the rest of the cabin. He walked through a narrow doorway,
which led into a small bedroom. A cheap-looking dresser stood against one wall.
Touching it, he realized it was made of pressed wood. He shook his head in
disgust. He preferred working with real wood himself, especially cedar, and
creating pieces that he could be proud of. It was probably the only thing he
could really do well. Give him a piece of cedar and he could create a piece of
furniture that would last forever. Even the old man couldn’t deny him that; it
was the one thing the old bastard would compliment him on. For a brief moment,
he felt a sense of loss. The old man had his moments. Another memory flashed
before him. He was eight years old and the old man was trying to make him shoot
that old 22. “Yeah, he was proud of me then, too,” he said out loud in disgust.
He shook off that memory and proceeded to explore.

The next room was a tiny bathroom, just a toilet and shower.
He walked down a narrow hallway and came to another bedroom, he held his
breath, trying to ignore the musky smell.

Two other bunk beds practically covered the entire floor
space. A small closet was on the opposite wall and he opened it, and what he
found gave him some sense of hope. A couple of t-shirts hung on the bar and he
grabbed one. He pulled off the one he was wearing and quickly threw it aside
and replaced it with the new one. While he was changing, he thought it was his
own odor he caught a whiff of, but something was off, it didn’t smell like body
odor. He took a deep breath and he inhaled one more time when he realized the
smell was gas fumes. There was no mistaking the scent of stale gas. Looking
down into the bottom of the small closet, he noticed a gray woolen blanket
covering something. He lifted the woolen cover and underneath was a small gas
generator. He unlatched the front door and dragged the generator outside, looking
it over carefully for signs of damage and was satisfied when he found none. Now
all he needed was some gasoline. He didn’t want to have to go back into town
with the bike, because he was pretty sure the kid would have reported it stolen
by now, so he decided to siphon the bike’s gas tank. Better he should have gas,
he could manage with what the shack had to offer; all he had to do was siphon
the gas, drop the bike off somewhere, and maybe get himself another vehicle and
maybe some groceries. He pulled out the cash he had left in his jeans pocket.
There wasn’t much left, just enough for a pack of cigarettes and a day or two’s
worth of groceries. If he was smart and conserved, he would have enough gas to
keep the generator going for a few days.

An old garden hose lay in some weeds on the south side of
the cabin. He picked it up and pulled out his pocket knife, and easily was able
to cut a section of the thin hose long enough to siphon the gas.

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with fatigue. He was tired. He
decided to take a quick nap and take care of the generator later.