Tuesday, November 19, 5:00 p.m.
As Bennett parked her cruiser behind Macy’s car in front of the Roberson’s small brick rancher, Macy finished checking her emails and tucked her phone away. She looked up at the Roberson’s two-story house. It was painted in white and was chipped in several spots. The lawn was neatly raked with several mature trees still clinging to a few orange and gold leaves. A row of boxwoods ran along the front of the house in a freshly mulched bed.
Out of her car, Bennett settled her hat on her head and drew in a breath. “I don’t want to make a death notification to this woman.”
Macy had made a few death notifications, and each had left an indelible image in its own way. “I can never decide which reaction is worse. The stony silence of an elderly woman who’s lost her forty-year-old son or the hysterical tears of a man who’s learned his runaway daughter has been murdered.”
“How do you handle it?”
“Tuck the feelings away in a small box. Later, when you have time, you can deal with them.” Macy rang the bell. “Don’t even think about death notifications right now. Mrs. Roberson will sense it. As far as we know, Debbie is alive and well.”
Instead of answering, Macy notched back her shoulders. “Let me ask the questions.”
“Sure.”
When no one came to the door, Macy rang again. This time a dog’s bark echoed in the house. Bennett’s gun belt creaked several times as she shifted her stance.
Footsteps echoed in the house, along with a soft command for the dog to be quiet. The door snapped open to a tall, thin woman wearing worn jeans, a football sweatshirt, and her hair pulled into a ponytail.
“Deputy Bennett,” the woman said.
“Mrs. Roberson. Is your husband here?”
“Yes, he’s in the TV room. You’ll have to go in there if you want to speak to him.”
“Mr. Roberson has ALS,” Bennett explained to Macy. “Mrs. Roberson, this is Special Agent Macy Crow from the FBI.”
“FBI.” Her brow knotted as if she knew a federal presence meant the scope of the case had grown. “Tell me that you’ve found my Debbie,” Martha said.
“We have not,” Macy said. “But we’d like to talk to you and your husband.”
“Nothing? That’s good news, right?”
“I don’t know what it means, ma’am,” Macy said gently. “May we come inside?”
“Of course.” The woman stepped aside and led them down a small hallway to a room outfitted with a hospital bed and a large nightstand crammed with medicines. Across from the bed, a large television playing a game show sat on an old dresser.
In the bed lay a man propped up on pillows with a thick quilt tucked up almost to his chin. Long and broad shouldered, he had been a big man before the disease had chewed away his nerve endings, had robbed him of movement and left him with a thin, withered frame.
Behind the hollowed features were alert, dark eyes that regarded Macy with keen interest. He moved his lips, but only a garbled sound could be slightly heard.
“Ronnie,” Martha said, “you remember Deputy Bennett. With her today is Special Agent Macy Crow with the FBI.”
His gaze narrowed as he searched Macy’s face.
“Good to meet you, sir.” Macy took his cool hand and shook it. After the HNR, most of the hospital staff had been great, but there were a few doctors and a physical therapist who had treated her like a potted plant. It was a life lesson that would forever change how she treated the injured. They were crippled, but damn sure not pathetic.
Mr. Roberson’s fingers flickered as he tried to squeeze her hand in response.
“Sheriff Nevada requested an FBI agent to investigate a different matter. I happened to be along with Deputy Bennett when we received your call.”
The fingers twitched.
Macy directed her question to the Robersons. “When did you last see Debbie?”
“It’s been a week,” Martha said. “She’s good about coming by, but sometimes all this here gets to be too much. She and her dad are very close and it’s hard. Last week she was upset, so I told her to take a break and not visit for a couple of weeks. She didn’t like the idea of that, but I insisted.” Martha looked to her husband. “She was supposed to call every day, but I haven’t spoken to her since Friday night.”
“No second-guessing, Mrs. Roberson,” Macy said. “That’s only going to chew you up inside.”
The older woman dug a tissue from her pocket and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “You’re right.”
“Was there anyone in her life who was a problem for her? Threats, unwanted gifts, visits that felt more like stalking?”
“I’ve been thinking about that all night. And I remember her saying she thought she saw a man outside her house one night a few weeks ago.”
“Did she recognize who it was?” Macy asked.
“No. She said he was wearing a dark hoodie and his face was shadowed. He had what looked like a notebook in his hand.”
Some killers stalked their victims before they committed their crimes. In some cases they spent weeks or even months gathering information about habits, patterns, and schedules. “Did she ever see him again?”
“If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
Bennett shifted her stance. “She never called in a report to my office.”
Maybe the man on the street corner was no one. And if it had been the man who took her, he might have been spooked after being spotted. Or maybe he was more careful with his reconnaissance.
“Debbie was also dating a new guy. She wouldn’t tell me his name so I wouldn’t make a big thing of it. She’s been through a lot with her divorce. Ronnie and me just want her to be happy.”
“That’s normal for a parent to want the best for their child, Mr. and Mrs. Roberson,” Macy said. “When did she go on this date?”
“A few weeks ago, I guess.”
“Did she know Rafe Younger?” Macy asked.
Martha frowned. “Rafe and she were a passing thing. I think the two were both on the rebound and lonely. She moved on from Rafe, and I’m glad.”
“Why?”
“He can’t hold a job. And he likes to drink. Not a good combination.”
“What do you know about Rafe?” Macy asked.
“He worked with Debbie at the assisted living place.”
“And he lives nearby?” Macy asked.
“Last I heard, he was living in a tiny place just west of here. Do you think Rafe took Debbie?”
“He was seen at Lucky’s on Saturday the same time Debbie was, but so far that’s all I have. They simply could have bumped into each other. What about handymen? Cable guy? Delivery man?”
“Nothing that she told me about.” Martha squeezed her husband’s hand. “And we’ve racked our brains for any kind of clue.”
“Mrs. Roberson, do you have Rafe’s phone number?” Macy asked. “Or an address?”
“No. Debbie said his phone was disconnected and he moved around a lot.”
Mr. Roberson’s face twisted in a mixture of frustration, sadness, and futility. He tried to speak, but again it was garbled. His wife patted him on the hand. “Ronnie, I’m going to show these ladies some pictures of Debbie. We’ll be right back.”
His eyes cut to his wife. He knew she was shielding him from this stress. Finally, he nodded, and Martha led them down the hallway toward the front door.
“There are no pictures,” she whispered. “But I can’t bear to have any stressful conversation in front of him. It upsets him and he only ends up getting sicker.”
“Is that why you asked Debbie to take a little time off?” Macy asked.
“Debbie wanted to put her father in the Deep Run assisted living facility. I didn’t agree, and we argued. I’m not sending my husband away from the only home he’s had. He grew up in this house. He needs me.”
“And your daughter saw it differently?” Macy asked.
“She did. She works at the facility and thought she could negotiate the price down. Even with a discount, I couldn’t afford it. Not that I would even if I could.”
“Mrs. Roberson,” Bennett said, “we did find your daughter’s car at the state park entrance. We found her purse and keys, but there was no sign of her. What would she have been doing there?”
“Hiking. She loves those woods. She likes being outside. Is it good or bad that you found her car?”
“It’s a starting point,” Bennett said. “She was last seen at the convenience store, and now we have her car.”
Martha took Bennett’s hand in hers. “Find my daughter. I know Ronnie and I weren’t kind to you when you pulled him over a few years ago. I know we even made it worse for you when we filed a complaint, but please help us.”
“I swore to do my job, Mrs. Roberson, and that is exactly what I’m going to do,” Bennett said.
Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes as she nodded and released the deputy’s hand.
As Bennett stepped outside, Macy handed her business card to Martha. “If you think of anything, no matter how small, call me.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Don’t give up,” Macy said.
Macy followed Bennett outside and toward their cars. “What happened with Mr. Roberson?”
“I arrested him for drunk driving four years ago. He became belligerent and tried to hit me. I defended myself and he filed charges. Dashcam footage backed up my story. The judge sentenced him to thirty days in jail.”
“Does he have a history of violence?”
“He’d never been arrested before.”
“What did he do before he got sick?”
“He taught history at Valley High School for twenty-five years.”
“While Tobi Turner was there?”
“Yes.”
The mask rubbed against the stubble on his face as he caressed the soft skin of her neck. He loved the way her bruises matured from faint red marks to deep purple. Soon they would grow angrier and band around her slender neck like a collar.
Now that he was alone with her, a sense of power raced through his body, and the pressures of the world didn’t feel so overwhelming.
Her eyes fluttered open. It took several moments for her gaze to focus on him and register where she was. When she did, she flinched and tried to scurry away. A swift knee placed adeptly on her abdomen stopped her retreat and held her firmly in place.
She knew she was trapped. She knew she was going to die, and she was terrified.
“You shouldn’t be afraid now,” he said. “You know what’s coming next. This is our special time together.”
“Please.” Her voice was raspy, like rough sandpaper.
He’d done his share of begging, pleading, and borrowing from those who mattered most of his life, and it felt so damn good to be on the receiving end. “Please what?” he asked.
“Please, let me go. I won’t tell. Please.”
He rubbed his index finger over her lips. “I love it when you beg.”