Deadly Holidays (A Deadly Trilogy Christmas Novella) Page 5
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The morning sun streaming through the etched round window of the attic woke Shawn. At first he looked around the room with confusion, until he remembered how his best friend had hidden him in this attic. He unzipped the side of his sleeping bag to stretch his arms and yawn. Then he crawled out of Billy's pup tent to look out the round window that faced the street.
A thick blanket of snow hugged the ground and was turning to slush in the streets as the cars sped by. Through the floor furnace grate register, Shawn could hear Billy's mommy and daddy talking in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon and eggs wafting into the attic made his tummy growl. A car door slam drew his attention back to the window, and what he saw made Shawn gasp in alarm: Detective Blake was walking up the sidewalk to the house.
Fear fluttered in his stomach like the fireflies he caught in Mason jars last summer. Detective Blake was his favorite person in the whole world. But today he was the last person Shawn wanted to see entering Billy's house. If he found him hiding in the attic, Detective Blake would make him return home where his mother would say nice words, so the police would leave. But the minute they were gone, she'd beat him until he bled. No, he couldn't go back there. He wouldn't. Even if he got handcuffed, he'd find a way to escape. He couldn't go back.
Shawn rose to his feet and paced back and forth, careful not to make too much noise. There were so many things that could go wrong now, it made him dizzy. What if Billy became so frightened of the law enforcement officer that he told him where Shawn hid? Detective Blake was a big man with lots of muscles. It would be easy for him to scare Billy, because he didn't realize what a nice man he was. He didn't know him like Shawn did.
Shawn moved inside the pup tent and closed the opening. He folded his hands together like he did when he said his bedtime prayer. Only it wasn't his bedtime, and this was more of an emergency prayer. Please God, don't let Detective Blake find me and make me go home. Please.
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Blake knocked on the door a couple of times until a pretty, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties opened it with the chain-lock still engaged. He withdrew his badge from his pocket and introduced himself.
"I'm Blake Stone with the sheriff's office," he began. "I'd like to come in and ask you some questions about Shawn Isaac, who disappeared yesterday."
The woman closed the door to disengage the chain-lock, then thrust it open and asked, "Shawn still hasn't been found?" A wave of apprehension swept through her facial features as he shook his head. After a moment, she stood aside and asked him to come in. She ushered him into the living room and motioned for him to sit down.
Extending her hand to shake Blake’s, she said, "I'm Cheryl Collins. I babysat Shawn for years. You can ask me anything you want. I'll help in whatever way I can. First, let me go get some coffee and tell my husband good-bye before he leaves for work. I'll be right back."
Blake scanned his surroundings. There was an overstuffed plaid sofa in the room, with two brown chairs and a coffee table. Tall ivory ceramic lamps graced a couple of end tables. A stack of children's books was on one end table, and green plastic Army men staged in battle were lined up on the other. He sighed as he thought about Shawn. Blake doubted it was a bad thing that the little boy spent so many hours in this home while his mother worked. It looked like the kind of place where a child could be a child. And if he could find Shawn, he and Jennifer would make sure their home did the same. They'd do their best to fill Shawn's life with love, play, and happy memories. If only Blake could find him.
Cheryl Collins entered the room with her flannel-shirted husband, whose jacket was thrown over his shoulder. He was carrying a tray of coffee mugs, a full pot of coffee, and cinnamon rolls.
Blake stood and introduced himself to Cheryl's husband.
"I'm Tom. Cheryl told me why you're here," he said, after he carefully set the tray on the coffee table. He reached into his pocket for a business card, which he handed to Blake. "I'm late for work, but I want you to know that Cheryl and I want to help in any way we can. Shawn is such a great kid. He needs to be found." Tom grabbed his coat and left through the front door.
A small boy that Blake guessed to be Billy peeked around a corner at him.
"Hi, Billy," said Blake. "I'm a friend of Shawn's."
The little boy scrunched his face as if he were considering the truthfulness of Blake's claim. His mother pulled him into the room and said, "Billy, what do you say to Mr. Stone?"
"Glad to meet you, sir," he responded, his eyes glued to the floor.
His mother kissed him soundly on the cheek and told him to go play in his room so the grown-ups could talk. She rose, poured Blake a cup of coffee, then plunked a cinnamon roll on a small plate and handed it to him.
"Thanks, I skipped breakfast this morning," said Blake before he bit into the cinnamon roll.
"I saw on the news last night that both Eve and John were killed and that Shawn is missing. I couldn't believe it. It's terrible," Eve said, sipping her coffee. "I've known that boy since he was three-months-old. That's when Eve started dropping him off here before she went to work."
Blake took a gulp of his coffee, then asked, "Is there anything you can tell me that might help us find him?"
"I'm not sure. Eve lost her job about six months ago, and I haven't seen much of him since then. But I do know that something very wrong was going on in that home."
"Are you referring to John Isaac?" asked Blake.
"Not entirely. Oh, I know John was a bully. Everyone in town knows that. I went to school with him. His family was poor as dirt, and he never had any money, so he'd beat up kids who did for their lunch money. I guess his bullying never stopped as he became an adult. She never said, but I knew he was beating Eve. I could see the bruises. It's Shawn I was worried about."
"What about Shawn?" Blake asked.
"When John Isaac was arrested last spring, Eve took Shawn and moved out," Cheryl recalled.
"Yes, I know."
"I don't think Shawn's beatings stopped when his father went to jail. I don't believe for a minute that John was the only one using his son as a punching bag."
"Eve?"
"Yes. She'd show up here late, and reeking of alcohol. The next day, Shawn would be wearing a long-sleeved shirt no matter how hot it was outside," she said. "One day last summer, I filled the plastic pool out back for the boys. Shawn jumped in with his shirt on. I grabbed him and tickled him until I could pull off the shirt. His back was lined with red welts, some of them were abrasions that had bled. Eve did that to him, and it wasn't the first time."
Blake swallowed hard, trying not to reveal his anger. He placed the cinnamon roll he was eating back on the small plate, which he placed on the table. He'd lost his appetite. "Did you ask Shawn about it?"
"Oh, Eve had him well-trained, or he was too terrified to say anything. He wouldn't talk about it at all. Wouldn't answer any of my questions."
Blake recounted all the time he'd spent with Shawn over the past few months, and not once did he suspect the little boy was being abused. He felt like such a fool. If he had known, he would have put a stop to it long ago. Cheryl was right about Eve's impact on him. Shawn had many opportunities to tell either Blake or Jennifer about the beatings, but he'd said nothing.
"Cheryl, did Shawn have any friends other than your son?"
"None that I know of. Billy and Shawn are the same age and they're in the same kindergarten class. They've always been close."
"Would you mind if I ask Billy a couple of questions?"
"No, of course not." She put her coffee cup on the table and walked down the hallway. Blake could hear her talking to Billy in his room. Before long, she led her son into the room. He sat close to her on the sofa.
Cheryl looked at Billy and said, "Billy, Mr. Stone is looking for Shawn, and he needs our help finding him. He's going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer."
Billy nodded, then looked fearfully at Blake.
"Billy, when was
the last time you saw Shawn?"
"At school before Christmas break. He's in my class," Billy lied, averting his eyes, and pulling at his fingers.
"So you haven't seen him yesterday or today?"
"No," he whispered, still avoiding eye contact.
"Who are some of Shawn's other friends at school? Maybe I could talk to them to see if they know where he is."
"I don't know. He sometimes talks to Joey, but mainly to me. We're best friends."
"Okay, if you think of anything that might help us find Shawn," Blake began as he slipped his business card out of his jacket, "just call the number on my card."
In his vehicle as Blake wrote up his report about the visit to the Collins’ house, he thought about the way Billy averted his eyes when he answered his questions. In nine out of ten times, when a suspect did this during an interview, he was lying. But Billy wasn't a suspect. He was a five-year-old. Billy could have been telling a lie, or he could have been a small boy who feared to talk to an officer.
The only thing Blake knew for certain was that when they found Shawn, he was going to need some professional help. The child had experienced emotional, psychological and physical abuse. Shawn was going to need all the support and help he could get. And if it was the last thing Blake did, he'd make sure Shawn got it. If only he could find him. The clock was ticking. Forty-eight hours had passed. If he didn't find him soon, it was unlikely he'd find Shawn alive.
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Frankie arrived early, with Hunter in the back seat, but parking spaces were scarce. It looked like every county resident, along with friends and family, had arrived to participate in the organized search for Shawn Isaac. Not that she was surprised. In one year's time, the county had lost three young women to a vicious serial killer, and now they had a missing five-year-old. Still reeling from the shock and sorrow, residents were determined to find this little boy alive.
Frankie and Hunter had retraced Shawn's steps from the courthouse the day before. But Hunter lost the little boy's scent near the shops, where an indefinite number of holiday shoppers had spent the day buying gifts.
Media trucks, along with some food trucks, lined up near the building. There were already long lines, with volunteer searchers waiting to get hot coffee to ward off the chill of the snowy, winter day. A helicopter sat on its pad, ready to take off with the sheriff and pilot. If Shawn had not been found by sunset, they'd fly over the entire area looking for him with thermal imaging equipment that detects heat radiating from humans and animals.
Frankie got out of her SUV, then pulled Hunter out of the back. The Giant Schnauzer was electrified with energy as he was every time he worked a search and rescue. Wearing a neon-yellow sweater, the dog seemed to know it was time for him to do his job. Frankie, with Hunter in tow, waded through the crowd of people until she could see Lane and Blake running the command booth. Lane stood in front, dividing up the group into four and five volunteers per team, and assigning a deputy as their lead. They were focusing their search on a wooded area and neighborhood near Shawn's elementary school, as well as the forest near the farm where he grew up. Volunteers were given a photo and description of Shawn, as well as water and a detailed map of the specific area they were assigned. They were instructed to stay close to their group leader, a deputy who had a walk-talkie to communicate with the command post that Blake and several deputies were manning.
Lane, Frankie and Hunter were assigned to the wooded area near John Isaac's farm. Blake handed Lane the bag containing Shawn's shirt. The three boarded the small yellow bus donated by the school system, and headed toward the farm with the rest of their volunteer team.
Frankie watched Hunter sitting in the seat next to her, gazing out the window. She'd often told Anne Mason-Brandt that her gift of Hunter as a puppy was the best present she'd ever received. Not only was Hunter a valued member of the community for his scent-driven searching abilities, but he was also an important member of Frankie and Lane's family. The dog was devoted to their three-year-old daughter, Ashley, and slept next to her bed each night guarding her.
Frankie could never have predicted Hunter's uncanny ability to find the lost, whether it was an Alzheimer’s patient who had strayed, or a child cowering under a piece of roofing after a tornado.
The bus pulled up to John Isaac's farm. Its boarded-up windows were a haunting reminder of the man's death, along with his wife's, just a day before. Moving to the edge of the wooded area to be searched, the bus stopped and the volunteers gathered outside to listen to Lane’s directions about how their search would be done. Using a single-line search pattern, Lane directed each volunteer to his/her placement along the line. Each person was reminded to call out if anything were found, and flag the item.
Wearing latex gloves so he wouldn't add his scent, Lane pulled a secured bag out of his duffle bag. He handed the bag containing one of Shawn's shirts to Frankie, who stood next to Hunter. She'd learned long ago that humans, alive or dead, constantly emit microscopic particles bearing the human scent. Her air-scenting Giant Schnauzer was trained to locate the scent of a human in a specific search area. Not restricted to the missing person's tracks, Hunter could search long after the tracks were destroyed.
Also wearing latex gloves, Frankie opened the bag, pulled out Shawn's soiled, striped T-shirt, and handed it to Hunter to sniff. Fiercely wagging his tail, the dog sucked in the scent of the shirt, then sat in an alert position, looking up at Frankie to communicate his readiness to begin.
With Lane close behind, they began covering their area downwind, so Hunter would have the best scenting coverage. Frankie removed Hunter's leash, knowing the dog would never stray too far from her sight.
They'd walked a short distance when Frankie spotted the decomposing carcass of a deer. She raced to a nearby tree and heaved what remained of her breakfast.
"Baby, are you okay?" asked Lane, who had rushed to her side.
She nodded, but her stomach was doing Cirque du Soleil-worthy acrobatics as she wiped her mouth with a tissue.
"You don't look okay. You look as green as one of the walkers in The Walking Dead."
Frankie glared at him and said, "Thank you, Lane. That was the exact look I was going for today." She pushed past him as he chuckled, and ran to catch up to Hunter.
They spent the rest of the day looking for Shawn, but found nothing. It was a long shot, Frankie thought, that the little boy could have walked the five miles from town to the farm, but it had been worth a try. As they headed back to town, she prayed that the other searchers had found him — alive.
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Though exhausted from the search, Frankie made it home in time to change clothes. She then followed Arthur Holden, president of the Holden Gasket Factory, pillar of the community and suspected adulterer by his wife, as he left work. Frankie tailed him as drove directly to a CVS drugstore downtown on First Street. He was acting like a man on a mission, and being the good P.I. she was, Frankie was suspicious.
She donned a curly brown wig and a cowboy hat and ventured into the store. Frankie made her way to Aisle C, where Mr. Holden stood in front of the condom and personal lubricant product display. She pretended to be shopping for feminine products and eased down the aisle until she sneaked a look over his shoulder. He was holding up a large box of Trojan Pleasure Pack Condoms. Although in his sixties, Arthur Holden looked a lot closer to seventy than to sixty. It seemed to Frankie this particular purchase could result in a life-altering or -ending situation. Mrs. Holden was certainly correct about one thing. Her husband's mind was not on the subject of poker, or any other card game.
Frankie slipped back into her car and watched Arthur Holden through the store’s plate-glass window as he paid for his items. She slunk down in her seat when he entered the parking lot. Assured he had not seen her, she followed his car at a discreet distance until he reached Pine Street, where he parked his Mercedes in front of a white house with its porch light blazing. Frankie pulled in front of a neighboring home, parked, a
nd pulled out her night-vision binoculars and a camera.
Soon a twenty-something, buxom young woman wearing a red nightie, a Santa-helper hat, and a smile opened the front door and thrust herself into Holden's arms. She squealed as he twirled her around a couple of times. This was definitely not poker night with the boys. Focusing and aiming her camera, Frankie took several candid and compromising shots of the couple before they went inside.
Frankie arched her back to stretch, then placed her hand over her mouth as she yawned. It had been a long day. Since Lane had to work tonight, too, she'd taken Ashley over to her Aunt Megan's house to make holiday cookies. That her little girl loved to visit her aunt assuaged Frankie's guilt in not spending the evening with her.
She dug in her duffle bag until she found a thermos of hot Starbucks espresso, and poured some in a plastic cup. Hoping the shot of caffeine would perk up her system, she drained the cup, then filled it again. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head against the car's headrest and watched the house. After an hour, her eyelids feeling heavy, she draped her red-plaid stadium blanket across her legs and turned up the heat. Frankie was drifting into a nap, when a loud boom — sounding like a tree had just fallen on top of her vehicle — startled her so much, she screamed and jumped in her seat in alarm, hitting her head on the vehicle's ceiling.