part0034

Blake spotted Hopkins. He was standing in the street speaking with the girl who had been carried into the woods. A man and a woman stood with her. Blake figured they were the girl’s parents. Next to them, the two bicycles still lay in the grass.

Blake kept his distance. It was important they got the victim’s story without him interfering.

The flashing lights of the police car, positioned to block access to the side street from Narragansett Avenue, turned every reflective surface into a strobe light. Mailbox numbers, license plates, even the traffic vest that one of the officers wore.

Along the row of dense trees bordering the empty lot, the flashing lights oscillated the shadows within the deep lines of the tree bark. The whole parcel became a living, breathing creature. A hungry leviathan angered that its meal was plucked from its mouth.

The red and blue strobes had also caused the shitshow that occurred when Christa returned home. Assuming Lucy’s body had been found, she threw herself into the middle of the street and had a complete mental breakdown. Blake had just about calmed her down when Gwyn showed up and the process started over again.

After hearing the story, they had agreed to go inside. Blake went with them, just to get them settled. He promised he would explain more when he returned.

Selfishly, he hoped they would pop a Valium and be fast asleep by the time he got back. But something told him that sleep wouldn’t be possible for them.

Blake looked back toward Hopkins and noticed that the young girl was pointing at him. Hopkins looked over his shoulder, and with a smile, waved Blake over.

“This is Special Agent Brier,” Hopkins said. “Agent Brier, this is Mikayla.”

Mikayla sprung forward and wrapped her arms around Blake’s arms and torso.

“We don’t know how we could ever thank you,” her father said.

“It’s nothing,” Blake said. “Just glad Mikayla’s all right.”

It was true. He had saved the girl. If he hadn’t been giving chase, the suspect would never have dropped her. But he felt as though he had failed her, just as he had failed Lucy and Zoe and Lucas. He wasn’t able to stop him from getting away and now their lives were in danger, more than ever. If he hadn’t killed them already.

“Charlie,” Hopkins said.

Fuller left the plainclothes officer he was speaking to and joined Hopkins.

“This is Lieutenant Fuller,” Hopkins said. “He’s going to take the three of you to the police station for a statement. Are you sure you don’t need any medical attention?”

“I’m sure,” Mikayla said.

“Okay,” Hopkins said. “I’ll check on you later.”

Fuller escorted the three toward his car.

Hopkins turned to Blake. “Unbelievable. He’s getting more and more brazen. Right out here in the open.”

“This pretty much seals the deal that the others were taken against their will.” Blake said.

“I agree. I think I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get the State out here. It’s too much for us. The Coast Guard is setting up off Beavertail and by the bridge. But I don’t think they’re going to be in time. If he made it through the passage, he could be anywhere by now. I put out a bulletin but, with only a clothing description and a generic boat description, I’m not sure how much use it’ll be. Arlene and the council were right, I should have called them in sooner.”

“We didn’t really know what we were dealing with until today,” Blake patted the back of Hopkins’s shoulder. “At least now, we’ve got some information to work with. We know how he travels and how he operates. And what do you make of the Naval Officer cap? There’s a naval station nearby, isn’t there? Can we reach out to the Master-At-Arms over there?”

“We can. But every damned charter and ferry boat captain in the area wears one of those caps. The crew of those big ritzy yachts. Yep, they wear them. Tugboats, sunset cruises, all of ‘em.”

“Still, it’s an important clue,” Blake said. “Why would he be wearing it while he’s out trying to kidnap a kid? Maybe he thinks it conveys some type of authority. Which I guess it would, to an extent. But it’s not like a police uniform.”

Blake thought back to the condo and the old eight-point hat he’d found on the bookshelf.

“There was something else,” Blake said, “I’m not sure I told you. In the doctor’s place, there was a hat with a Jamestown Police badge. It wasn’t the same design as the one you’re wearing, though. The thing looked ancient.”

“Hmm. You think this guy may be posing as authority figures in order to get close to his victims?”

“The thought did cross my mind, originally,” Blake said. “But the guy I saw running from the condo is definitely not the same guy I saw tonight. Totally different build. The guy at the condo was skinny. This one wasn’t. And the guy I was chasing ran like the wind. Unless his ankle healed up real fast, I’m afraid I put us on a wild goose chase this morning.”

“Unless the two guys are related somehow. Let’s do what we have to do here, and then we’ll regroup. I’ll call Newport and find out if there was any progress on Grenier.” Hopkins called one of the officers. “Can I borrow your flashlight?”

The officer delivered a Maglite to Hopkins, who handed it to Blake.

“Walk me through it,” Hopkins said. “The suspect was here, then took off this way.”

Hopkins began walking north. Blake walked beside him.

“He had the girl on his shoulder and ran to about there,” Blake said, “then went into the woods.”

Blake moved ahead. Guessing the approximate spot, he led Hopkins through the wood line.

“Go slow,” Hopkins said. “Watch for any footprints or anything he may have dropped.”

Blake moved further in. In the light of the flashlight, it didn’t look familiar. He pressed the Maglite to his body to dampen it and used the backlit trees to gauge if he was in the right place. He used this method several times. He pointed the flashlight at the ground to move, then shut it off to check his surroundings.

“Around here,” Blake said, “this is about where I ran into Mikayla.” He pointed toward the far edge. “And that’s where I saw him pop out to the road.”

Hopkins scoured the ground. Besides some dirt that looked like it might have been disturbed, there was nothing. No discernible footprints. Not even Blake’s.

“It’s too dry,” Hopkins said.

Blake moved forward. He moved the light from side to side, scanning the widest area he could. Something stood out, about five or six feet to his right. He pushed through the brush to investigate.

“I’ve got something,” Blake said.

Hopkins joined him. “Christ Almighty.”

On the ground was a brown burlap bag, large enough to fit a human being. Beside it was a pile of rope.

No words needed to be exchanged between the two men about what they had found. Its implication was obvious.

Hopkins unclipped his radio from his belt. “Bobby, come into the woods. Follow my light.”

“Roger,” the radio squawked.

Hopkins held his flashlight high and rotated it back and forth until the plainclothes officer reached their position.

“I’m going to need you to collect these items,” Hopkins said. “We’re going to continue checking for more evidence.”

“No problem,” the officer said.

“By the way, this is Blake Brier from the FBI,” Hopkins added. “This is Bobby, our one and only Detective.”

“We met a little earlier,” Blake said.

Hopkins backed away from the evidence. “Where’d he go next?”

Blake trudged toward the north and then pushed through to Narragansett Avenue. He waited for Hopkins to catch up. “He got to about here, and then he ran straight down the hill.”

They both began walking in that direction.

“When he hit the bottom, I thought I had him.” Blake let out a frustrated snort. “I forgot there were boats lined up that close to the side of the pier. When he went over the side, I thought he was going to try to swim. I actually thought, ‘Yeah, now you’re mine.’ Man, was I wrong.”

“You did as much as you could,” Hopkins said.

Blake understood that Hopkins was placating him. But he appreciated it anyway.

They reached the marina and walked to the south edge of the pier. There, several sets of grated stairs, positioned every twenty feet or so, led from the jetty on which they stood, into the water. Ropes attached to pulleys stretched from wooden posts on shore to pilings twenty or thirty feet out. The purpose of the pulleys was to allow small boats to be floated away from the edge during low tide, then pulled in to be accessed from the stairs when the depth allowed it.

The outhauls, as they were called, were a convenient way to store a small boat and still have instant access to it when needed. And, as it turned out, each slot was registered to an individual. As Hopkins pointed out, the permits were only available to island residents.

It wasn’t difficult for Blake to identify the exact slot from which the suspect had fled. It was the only empty slot. The loose rope sagged toward the water.

Hopkins picked up his phone and dialed. “Charlie. I know you’re in the middle of something. I need you to look in the outhaul book.”

Hopkins provided him with the slip number and waited. He twisted the phone so the microphone side faced behind him.

“You may not have physically caught him, but this might be the next best thing,” he said.

Fuller must have come back on the line because Hopkins twisted the phone back toward his mouth and nodded to himself several times. Finally, he spoke. “I see. Okay, I’ll keep you posted.”

“Well?” Blake said.

Hopkins’ brow scrunched inward, toward his nose. It was the first time Blake had seen Hopkins with such a quizzical expression.

“It belongs to a guy who lives a few houses up from here. I know him. Everyone does. They call him Chief.”

“Sure, we’ve met,” Blake said. “He used to be the Chief of Police back in the day. I’ve spoken with him a few times. That can’t be right, though. Doesn’t make sense.”

The man he chased was definitely not Chief. The old man was slight, extremely slender, and he could barely walk with his bad knee, never mind run.

“Come on.” Hopkins started back the way they came. “We’re going to pay a house call.”

Could Chief really be involved in this? He had seemed such a meek man. Personable and likable. Then again, Ted Bundy had often been described the same way.

It was possible, based solely on description, that the man he saw fleeing the condo was Chief.

But was he physically capable of emptying the contents of the condo? What if he had help? Not one, but two suspects. Or more.

It was as if the more they learned, the less they knew.

Hopkins reached the door first. He knocked loudly and then rang the bell.

The house was dark, which was expected this late at night. Although, with the racket Hopkins was making, the whole neighborhood should have been awake already.

The thought occurred to Blake that if the Chief had rented the condo in Newport and was posing as a doctor for whatever reason, Lucas would have recognized him. Lucas saw the Chief daily. Once while Blake was present.

Wouldn’t Lucas have mentioned it? He thought back to Lucas’s words. Lucas said he went to see Doctor John in Newport on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He never said Chief wasn’t his doctor. Because Blake never actually asked.

Lucas was a man of few words. He answered questions directly and took things literally. It was possible that Lucas was telling him who the doctor was the whole time. Blake just wasn’t listening.

His mind swirled. Chief’s thick accent rang in his ears.

The old man had been strangely unconcerned about Lucy’s disappearance. And then there was the fact that he seemed so confident the dead girl was not Lucy, even before Christa and Gwyn were able to determine that it wasn’t her.

Lucas trusted him. Lucy would have also trusted him.

A rage churned inside of him. He had sat there, having a pleasant conversation with the very man he was after. It burned in his gut. How could he be so stupid?

Blake’s frustration came flying out of his mouth as an involuntary snarl. “That son of a bitch.”

“He’s not here.” Hopkins ignored Blake’s outburst.

“Of course he’s not here.” Blake said. “He’s out there.”

“Shouldn’t his wife be answering?”

“Who knows,” Blake said, “she’s probably dead too.”

“Shit.” Hopkins took out his phone again and placed a call. “Charlie, I need you to put out a teletype. John Perrington. Yes, that’s right. Chief. Yes, all surrounding states. And hurry.” He hung up.