The Short Drop (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

George Abe pressed a button on his steering wheel and hung up the call. After a moment, a bootleg recording of the Rolling Stones live at the LA Forum’75 filled the car. Jagger was growling about a gin-soaked barroom queen. It was the Stones’s first tour without Mick Taylor, and Ronnie Wood, while an able replacement, was still his own man and was putting his own mark on another man’s chords. It was one of George’s favorites, but he needed to think. He turned off the stereo and drove in silence.

The call with Calista had not been pleasant. She was impatient, anxious, and increasingly frustrated that things weren’t proceeding more quickly in Somerset. That was part of it, but the death of her older sister had shaken her profoundly, and to say the least, Calista was not at her best.

Calista had been close to her sister, and in many ways Evelyn Furst was the last member of the family of which that could be said. Evelyn had shared Calista’s passion for the family’s legacy and standing in the world. Her career as a surgeon and as the long-serving dean of medicine at the University of Pittsburgh was something Calista celebrated. Evelyn had been a pioneer for women, had led the way, and to Calista that was what it meant to be a Dauplaise.

To say no one had seen it coming was an understatement. He had known Evelyn for years, and she’d seemed fine when he’d spoken to her at Catherine’s birthday party. Perhaps a touch preoccupied but certainly not suicidal. Of course, it was impossible to predict how the loss of a spouse might affect a person. Evelyn’s suicide note had been profound and sad.

Calista had rather dramatically taken to talking about being “alone in the world.” It was hard to be alone in the world when you had thirty houseguests, as Calista did for the funeral, but Calista had always drawn a distinction between those who upheld her notions of Dauplaise values and those who absconded to Florida. Evelyn was, in Calista’s mind, one of the last who’d carried the torch. A true Dauplaise. She was only interested in results and had no understanding of the time such matters required. And things in Pennsylvania had definitely become more complex.

She was also incensed that he had brought Gibson Vaughn home. She hadn’t wanted him there in the first place, but now she was acting as if his absence explained why things were taking so long. She continued to voice doubts about Jenn and Dan’s competence, and was pushing hard for George to take over personally in Somerset.

George understood, in principle. She was grasping at straws, trying to impose order over a situation that was still fluid. This was not her world, and looking for Suzanne this way exposed her to considerable risk. As it exposed them all. It weighed heavily on him. He had sanctioned these tactics when Kirby Tate had been an abstract. But now Tate was a person, and George had to question the morality of asking his people to go down this path. Jenn and Dan were loyal. When this was all over, George knew there would be a reckoning.

His phone buzzed—a voice mail from Jenn. She’d called twice while he’d been talking to Calista. She and Dan would have had time to digest the Musgrove file by now. George had decided against mentioning Musgrove to Calista until he knew better how it fit into the investigation. She was liable to overreact to such an unexpected curveball.

A black SUV passed him at speed and pulled in front of his car aggressively. George tapped the brakes as the SUV slowed and red-and-blue strobes erupted from its running lights. A second black SUV pulled in tight behind him, boxing him in. The lead vehicle squelched a short burst of siren and signaled for George to pull over. George followed their directions and hit a button on his steering wheel. The car asked what number to call.

“Jenn Charles,” he said, pronouncing it crisply.

The phone rang as their little convoy came to a stop on the shoulder. It went to voice mail, and he spoke a single word: “Meiji.”

He hung up as a tall agent in a dark suit rapped on his window. A second agent was at the passenger door. The doors of the SUV behind him were open, but neither agent had moved. George rolled down his window an inch.

“FBI. Are you George Abe?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to come with us, sir.”

“What’s this about?”

“Pennsylvania, sir. Step out of the car, please.” The agent tried the door, but it was locked. “Unlock the door, sir.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“We’d prefer to avoid that if we can.”

George weighed his options.

“Step out of the car, sir.”

“Give me a minute,” George said.

“Step out of the car, sir,” the agent repeated, an undercurrent of menace in his voice now.

The agents were out of the other SUV now. George could feel things escalating quickly out of his control. He unlocked the door, and the agent opened it. George stepped out and allowed the agent to pat him down.

“He’s clean,” the agent said to his partner on the other side of the car.

The agent ushered him in the direction of the lead SUV. His partner crossed toward them, slipping between the bumpers of the two vehicles. George glanced down at the sizeable dent in the SUV’s rear fender. The Bureau was slipping. There had been a time that a Bureau vehicle with a dent would have been off the road and in the shop in twenty-four hours. Then George caught the license plate, and his smile disappeared. It didn’t have government plates, and it wasn’t from DC or Virginia either. Tennessee plates . . . he’d been too busy calling Jenn to pick up on it when he’d been pulled over. The agent hadn’t shown him credentials either. Whoever they were, they weren’t Bureau. He’d have given a small fortune for the gun in his glove compartment, but it was a long way away now.

George slowed and patted his sports-jacket pockets as if he’d forgotten something.

“I left my phone in the car,” he said and began to turn back.

“Just get in the car, sir.” The man took him by the arm to turn him back.

The man expected a little resistance. George offered none and used the tug to spin back toward him. His fist caught the man under the chin. It was a hammer blow, and if it had caught the man in the throat as George intended, then it would have crushed the larynx. But George’s feet had slipped slightly in the gravel, and it didn’t land cleanly.

As it was, the man’s head snapped back, and he let out a snarl of pain. George couldn’t run, and while he might take both of these men in close quarters, the two men in the rear SUV would put him down. George went for the man’s gun instead. His only chance was to draw it before the partner reached him. George found the gun’s grip and pulled it clear, twisting sideways as he did to put some space between himself and the partner who was closing in on him. George tried to bring the gun up, but it snagged on the lining of the man’s jacket. He wrenched it free, but the partner was on him by then.

Taser voltage exploded through George’s central nervous system.

Jenn sat in the passenger seat of the Cherokee. On the dashboard lay the crime-scene photo of Terrance Musgrove’s suicide. In the shock of discovering Tate’s murder, she’d forgotten all about it. Wondering what Gibson Vaughn was doing back in Pennsylvania had brought it back to her.

She opened her laptop and scrolled to the background dossier on Gibson that she’d compiled before George had approached him for the job. She clicked on the folder labeled “Duke Vaughn” and flipped through it until she found the photograph. Her eyes went back and forth between the two.

“How is this possible?” she said out loud.

It was a small thing—a meaningless detail in the bottom corner of each photograph. Unremarkable unless you looked at them side by side. She’d figured that it was her memory playing tricks on her, or at best it was just a coincidental similarity. But this, this was something else. This was the same. Exactly the same. How was that possible?

She showed it to Hendricks.

“How
is
that possible?” he echoed.

She didn’t know, but it tied Duke Vaughn to what was happening in Somerset. To Suzanne Lombard’s abduction.

Hendricks looked at her seriously. “This stays between us until we know what it means.”

“Even Vaughn?”

“Especially Vaughn.”

They went back to work, because it was paralyzing to think about it too long, and they couldn’t afford to be here a second longer than was necessary. That worked for a while, until the sound of Hendricks cursing rousted her. She thought she was well versed in all of Hendricks’s tones, but there was an unfamiliar edge to his voice. He sounded panicked. She found him standing over their weapons bag.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“One of them’s gone.”

“One of what’s gone? One of the guns?”

“One of the Glocks.” His voice had dropped to a near whisper. “That and two mags.”

“Anything else?”

“There doesn’t need to be anything else missing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He owns me. That’s what I’m talking about. I couldn’t figure why he took Tate’s body instead of sticking it with us. But now I get it.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right. I’ve fired that gun a thousand times. I handloaded those mags. I cleaned those guns. My prints are on every moving piece, on every shell casing.”

“And he didn’t leave any shell casings . . .”

“No. Not one. I double-checked. He picked them all up. Which means he can dump the body, plant the gun, and ring me up for murder any time he wants. So like I said, he owns me.”

“Who?”

“Whoever it was. Gibson. WR8TH. Does it even matter?”

Hendricks looked at her expectantly like a child who just wanted a comforting word. She didn’t know that she had any. They thought they’d been two steps ahead, when in actual fact they’d been well behind. She wondered what George would do in this situation. These kinds of blind-alley crises were his forte, but he was nowhere to be found. So the question really was, what would
she
do?

“That boy and I have a chat coming,” he said.

“It’s not Gibson.”

“Convince me.”

“This?” Jenn gestured at the blood still in Tate’s unit. “This isn’t him.”

“Then why isn’t he home where he belongs? Why did he lie? That bullshit about keeping the car a few extra days? He’s been here the whole time,” he said. “And that stunt at the McKeoghs’ house with the computer. That doesn’t sound like something he’d pull?”

“So you’re saying Gibson tripped the virus to draw us away, circled back to have a one-on-one with Tate. In plain view of the camera, mind you. Then, came back an hour and a half later to kill Tate, this time making sure to stay out of view. And for good measure, takes the body and steals one of our guns. Does that sound likely to you?”

“Maybe not, but I surely intend to find out.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

WR8TH sat down across from Gibson. The world’s most-wanted pedophile, in the flesh.

Up close, WR8TH looked even younger. He could easily pass for a college student. He had a boyish energy and trouble sitting still. His deep-set brown eyes twinkled with a mischievous intelligence. But around his eyes were deeply etched worry lines, and one tuft of his hair had turned an incongruous gray. WR8TH fiddled uneasily with his glasses but let Gibson stare. He took out a pack of cigarettes, slid one halfway out of the pack, and pushed it back in.

“Better not,” he said. “Mrs. M. will have me arrested. That would be funny.”

“Mrs. M.?”

“Mrs. Miller.” WR8TH hooked a thumb toward the library. “Friendly neighborhood librarian. Drinks her face off in her office, but God forbid I smoke a cigarette out here.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re her network guy,” Gibson said.

“Guilty.”

“Man, I knew the gear was a little too good for a little public library. You work for the county?”

“Yeah, it was hard not to overdo it.”

“No, you did a good job. Fooled me.”

“Thanks.” WR8TH seemed genuinely pleased by the compliment. “Billy Casper,” he said by way of introduction.

Gibson shook his hand mechanically, the guy’s name ringing a faint bell. “How is that possible? How can you be WR8TH? I mean, you were what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“I was sixteen and five months.”

“And five months?”

“Yeah, I’d just gotten my driver’s license.”

“And you’re telling me, straight up, that you’re the one everyone’s been looking for all these years?”

“Believe me, I waited for the FBI to huff and puff and blow my world in. The first two years I was paranoid like a mother. Thought our phones were tapped. I was the most stressed-out high-school junior ever. Parents made me go to a shrink. Thought I was schizophrenic or something. I mean, WR8TH? Wraith? Casper? How hard is that to figure out? But they never did. Guess they weren’t looking for an actual sixteen-year-old.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is she?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“If you’re lying to me . . .”

“What? You’ll kill me?”

“Yeah,” Gibson said, surprised by the certainty of it.

Billy smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“You really took her?”

“Jeez, man, I didn’t ‘take’ her. It wasn’t like that. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Care to uncomplicate it?”

“Yeah, I do. Care to take a drive?”

“Where?”

“I’ll show you. I’m not going to tell you, so don’t ask. Can’t have you telling your partners where I am.”

“I thought you trusted me, and anyway, they’re not my partners anymore.”

“Screw you. I told you my name. Where I work. Maybe that’s all you get right now.” Billy flashed angry. “Maybe you show me a little reciprocity, huh? You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.”

“No, actually, you don’t,” Billy said.

Gibson drove them north out of Somerset. Billy seemed to relax as soon as they were away from the library.

“I have a gun. I guess I should tell you that,” Billy said.

Gibson gave him a sidelong glance.

“Look, I’m not going to use it or anything. Not unless you cross me. Deal?”

“Just don’t point it at me otherwise. Deal?”

“You got one? In your bag or somewhere?”

“I don’t. Don’t really like guns.”

“What? You were in the Marines, man.”

“Not by choice.”

“Truth,” Billy said simply. He looked out the window and smiled.

Gibson glanced over at him again. “What are you grinning about?”

“Just a relief, you know? You don’t know what it’s like to have to carry this kind of secret around for ten years. It eats at you. There are days you just want to bust. You don’t know how many times I thought about posting her photo to Reddit. Sit back and watch everyone lose their shit.” Billy pointed off to the right. “Turn here at the light.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Post it. Come forward anonymously.”

“Because of Mr. Musgrove.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Musgrove?”

“My neighbor growing up.”

Gibson waited for him to elaborate, but Billy withdrew under a dark cloud of brooding.

They drove north in silence. Gibson kept prodding him, but Billy said he’d rather just show him. Billy asked if he could smoke. Gibson said it wasn’t his car, but Billy cracked a window anyway and carefully blew his smoke away from him.

Whatever else Billy Casper might be—kidnapper, compulsive liar, schizophrenic—he seemed like a decent kid. Gibson could see why Bear trusted Billy enough to meet him in Breezewood. Enough to get into his car. Gibson liked Billy Casper. But that wouldn’t save him if he’d done something to Bear.

They drove north for several hours. As they got close to their destination, Billy became agitated again. Gibson heard him groaning quietly under his breath, as if tectonic plates were shifting inside him, grinding against each other. Billy didn’t seem aware he was doing it.

“I hate coming back here,” Billy said.

They turned onto a narrow, shoulderless road that ran parallel to Lake Erie. It was wooded on both sides, but, through the trees and down long dirt roads, he could see expensive beachfront homes and the sun sparkling off the lake. It was a beautiful, peaceful part of the world—rustic but intentionally so. It amazed him that such a place existed less than an hour from Kirby Tate’s house.

Most of the properties didn’t have mailboxes and weren’t otherwise marked. It would have been easy to get lost, but Billy knew exactly where they were.

“Okay, it’s your next left. No, not this one, the next.”

“What’s on the left? Whose place is this?” Gibson asked.

“Mr. Musgrove’s. I mean, not anymore, but it was before. It’s his sister’s now. She lives in Saint Louis. She was here for two weeks in June. Probably won’t see her again until next year.”

“And you know this how?”

“I’m her caretaker.”

“How many jobs do you have?”

Gibson slowed and turned off onto a bumpy, poorly maintained dirt road. Like many of the properties, it had a chain between two wooden posts blocking the way. Billy hopped out and unlocked the chain and threw it off the road before getting back in the car. Trees rose up steeply on both sides, and there was barely enough room for the car to pass.

“You want to go easy here. There’s kind of a big rock in the road.” Billy pointed to a spot up ahead.

After a quarter mile they cleared the tree line and came upon a large two-story wood-framed house. A wide, appealing porch supported by white columns encircled the house. The dirt road gave way to a circular white stone driveway. An elm rose in the center of the loop. Short trimmed grass ran down both sides of the house and sloped away toward the water’s edge. To the left were parking spots, but Gibson pulled up in front of the stairs leading up to the porch.

“Why are we here, Billy?”

“This is where I hid Suzanne. I think I got Mr. Musgrove killed for it.”

Anguish swept over Billy Casper’s face. He got out of the car and walked, head down, toward the lake. Gibson watched his shoulders buck uncontrollably; Billy was crying, sobbing, really. Gibson let him go, giving him a little space, then followed.

Billy sat on a wood pylon at the end of the dock. Gibson sat opposite him. Twice, Billy seemed to get a handle on himself, but then his mind would overturn some long-repressed memory and the tears would come again.

“I’m not actually a crier,” Billy said, half laughing, half crying. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Impressive, huh?”

“It’s not easy saying some things the first time.”

Billy looked up at him gratefully and nodded.

“Who is Mr. Musgrove?”

“Aw, man, he was the nicest guy. You would have liked him. Talked to everyone like an equal, even kids. We used to talk about video-game design, computer science. Stuff like that. But like a grown-up, you know? He just knew a little bit about everything. Everything interested him. We were a couple of doors down from them. My parents were good friends with them. My mom jogged with Mrs. Musgrove a couple times a week. Ginny and my sister were like this.” Billy crossed two fingers tightly. “I mean, before the accident.”

Billy pointed out to the lake and told Gibson about how a boat had hit Ginny Musgrove, and how her mom had drowned trying to save her. How it had wrecked Terrance Musgrove—the drinking and anger that followed. A family destroyed in a matter of minutes.

“He only ever came out here one time afterward. Right after it happened, with the police. After that it was like the place didn’t exist.”

“Why didn’t he sell it?”

“Dunno. Probably just easier to keep paying the mortgage than actually deal with it, I guess. He was such a mess afterward. But he shut it down. Cut off the phone, electricity. Everything but gas and water.”

“And he hired you to take care of it for him?”

“Yeah, he had a guy at first, but it didn’t work out. Threw a party down here or some shit—Mr. Musgrove fired him. So after I got my driver’s license, Mr. Musgrove hired me. I wasn’t really the party-throwing type, you know? He paid me to drive out once a month and make sure everything was good. Said he just couldn’t do it. That’s why I figured it was a good place for Suzanne to hole up. No one ever came out here but me.”

“And you’re still the caretaker?”

“Yeah, after he died, it was just easier for his sister to keep me on.”

“How did he die?”

“Committed suicide. Like your dad.”

The mention of his father stung. Billy had brought it up so naturally, so unexpectedly. The way only an old friend would. It reinforced his sense that Billy Casper believed they were connected in all this through Suzanne.

“I don’t want to talk about my father.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. But if Mr. Musgrove committed suicide, why do you say you got him killed?”

“’Cause I don’t think he did.”

They walked back up to the house. Billy unlocked the back door and let them into the kitchen. It was a large, bright room the color of cantaloupe rind. There was a small island with a double sink and a dishwasher. Billy gestured toward a wooden kitchen table by the window.

“Recognize it?”

Gibson looked at the table. The picture of Bear had washed it out, but it was the same table.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it. It was against that wall back then. Suze was sitting right there. That chair,” Billy said. “That exact chair. I took the picture the night we got here. She didn’t want me to. She was so tired, man. But relieved too, you know? She hadn’t been eating real well the last few weeks. She was so thin I couldn’t believe it. Considering. But she was still so beautiful. I was just happy she was here, you know? We were together at last.”

Gibson heard the ache in Billy’s voice and tried to reconstruct the moment in his head. Bear sitting there. Exhausted. Billy excited, like a puppy dog, snapping her picture. He tested the image to see if he believed it. Had sixteen-year-old Billy Casper engineered one of the most famous disappearances in American history? Was it as simple as a couple of kids hiding out at a lake house?

“How long was she here?”

“Six months, two weeks, and a day,” Billy said. “We played a lot of Settlers of Catan.”

“Settlers of what?”

“Catan, man. You’ve never played Settlers? It’s a board game. It’s awesome. She loved it. She was so much better than me, though. Always kicked my butt.”

It defied belief. Two kids hiding out, playing board games, while the FBI tore the country apart looking for them. But then law enforcement had made all the wrong assumptions and gone looking in all the wrong places. One thing was for certain: if Billy’s story weren’t true, then he was either a world-class liar or a world-class lunatic. But try as he might, Gibson couldn’t pick up on a single false note.