Authors: James Swain
The Night Stalker (29 page)
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
T
hey didn’t release Abb from prison right away. Too much had happened in the world during his twelve-year incarceration that Abb didn’t know about, and throwing him back into society was not in his best interests. Instead, the state moved him to a minimum security facility a few miles outside of Starke, and had counselors and psychologists work with him, and bring him up to speed. One day I read in the newspaper that he was finally going home.
Not long after, Jessie came to Fort Lauderdale for a basketball game, and decided to see Heather. She asked me to join her. I normally didn’t stay in touch with my clients after a case was closed, but the Grimes family was different, and I wanted to see how they were doing. I said yes, and Jessie and I drove over together.
The Grimes house looked different from the last time I’d seen it. The blinds were gone from the windows, and the “No Trespassing” signs removed from the lawn. I knocked on the front door, and Abb opened it. He’d put on a few pounds, and his hair was shorn and neatly parted. I shed the bag to show him the beer I’d brought, and his eyes lit up.
“Doesn’t that look good,” he said.
Abb led us inside, where we found Heather and Jed sitting on the living room floor playing with Sampson. Jessie got on the floor, and soon I couldn’t tell who was screaming the loudest, Sampson or my nineteen-year-old daughter.
“That beer’s getting warm,” I heard Abb say.
I followed him outside, where we stood in the front yard and drank beer and talked. Mostly about what had happened to him, but also about fishing and college football and all the things that people in this neck of the world tended to talk about. Abb had heard about Buster, and I got my dog out of my car, and coaxed him into letting Abb pet him.
LeAnn came outside and joined us on the lawn. She wore a simple red dress and a touch of makeup, and had a red bow tied in her hair. Her face had lost its anguish, and in her eyes I saw a spark that had not been there before.
“What’s going to happen to Detective Cheeks?” she asked.
Cheeks had been indicted, and I’d heard that the district attorney was going to make an example of him.
“He’s going to jail for a long time,” I replied.
My answer seemed to satisfy her. From the pocket of her dress, LeAnn removed a small white envelope, and handed it to me. I started to put the envelope into my pocket, and she asked me to open it.
I tore the envelope open. Inside was a color photograph of Abb, Sampson, and Jed sitting on Abb’s motorcycle. Their physical resemblance was uncanny, right down to their toothy grins. I slipped it into my shirt pocket.
“That’s a keeper,” I said.
LeAnn kissed me on the cheek. I wasn’t expecting that, or the long hug that came with it. She went back inside without another word.
Abb and I finished drinking the beers. Then, in a quiet voice, he told me how the state was planning to compensate him for the years he’d spent in prison, and pay him for every day he’d been behind bars, adjusted for inflation. He told me the sum, which was over a million dollars, and laughed under his breath.
“One day I’m sitting on death row, the next I win the lottery,” he said.
There was no restitution for lost time. But the money was better than nothing. I slapped him on the shoulder, and told him that I hoped he enjoyed the rest of his life.
“I’m sure going to try,” Abb said. “There’s something I was meaning to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“Those Jane Does I was accused of killing. Were the police able to identify them?”
The question hit me hard, and it took a moment for me to realize why. Abb still cared about those women. He’d
always
cared, even when he was sitting on death row, awaiting the executioner’s song. He was a good man, and it was a crying shame that no one had seen it before.
“The police found their identification in Vorbe’s bedroom,” I said. “Their families have been contacted and given the news.”
“So it’s all finished and done with,” Abb said.
I nodded. The case was closed, the files put to bed.
“Good,” he said.
Jessie came outside. Her basketball game was in a few hours, and she needed to get back to her hotel. I said good-bye to Abb, and fetched Buster from the bushes. Abb waved to us from the curb as we pulled away.
“Did you have fun?” I asked.
Jessie smiled. I removed LeAnn’s photograph from my pocket, and showed it to her. She said, “Oh, wow,” under her breath, and didn’t speak again until we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate.
“Is this why you do it?” my daughter asked.
She was still holding the photo in her hand.
I pulled my eyes away from the road. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t just save Sampson. You saved all of them, Daddy. Is that why you take the chances you take?”
Traffic began to move, and I put my foot on the accelerator. I did not see myself as a savior, or a saint. I just found missing kids. But if my work also brought families back together, and revealed long-hidden truths, then that was fine by me.
“Yes, honey,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the following people’s help, this book could not have been written. A big thank-you to Lisa Buchholz and Richard Theis, who didn’t mind when I called them at odd hours with questions, and to my rooting section at Ballantine Books—Dana Issacson, Gina Centrello, the incredible Linda Marrow, and Libby McGuire.
Special thanks to Andrew Vita, Team Adam Consultant with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and former Associate Director/Enforcement for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. His help again proved invaluable in writing this book.
And, finally, I owe a long ovation to my wife, Laura, who can look at anything I write, and always find the story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J
AMES
S
WAIN
is the author of eight bestselling novels. In 2006, he was awarded the Prix Calibre 36 for Best American Crime Fiction. He lives in Florida with his wife, Laura.
ALSO BY JAMES SWAIN
Midnight Rambler
Grift Sense
Funny Money
Sucker Bet
Loaded Dice
Mr. Lucky
Deadman’s Poker
Deadman’s Bluff
The Night Stalker
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by James Swain
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Cherry Lane Music Publishing for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Don’t Be Cruel,” words and music by Elvis Presley and Otis Blackwell, copyright © 1956 Elvis Presley Music (BMI).
Elvis Presley Music administered by Cherry River Music Co. (BMI).
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Swain, James.
The night stalker : a novel / James Swain.
p. cm.
1. Serial murders—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Florida—Fiction. 3. Prisoners—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.W225N54 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008026628
eISBN: 978-0-345-50944-4
v3.0