Chapter
Nineteen

Kate’s feet hurt so much she had to press her lips together to keep from crying out. She was determined not to slow them down. They had to find someplace safe. Why did it have to rain today? Arkansas in the spring was wet, but couldn’t today have been a dry day? They could have driven off the mountain and back to Shelter Cove. Did Gerard plan this? Did he watch the weather reports, hoping he could get her up the mountain before the rains began? Although it was a stretch, in a way it made sense. He needed time to torture her. To kill her slowly. He liked to make his victims suffer. She already knew something about that.

She yelped when she stubbed her toe against a rock. Tony stopped walking and looked down at her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, trying to smile. “Sorry, wasn’t watching where I was going, I guess. I’m fine.”

Rather than start again, Tony appeared to study her. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” she said again through gritted teeth.

Bobby had stopped and was also looking at her with concern. Kate realized that these two men had put themselves in danger to help her. Although she tried to fight it, her emotions spilled over and she started to cry. The past few hours had been so terrifying, and even though she was still in danger, she was incredibly grateful not to be alone.

“That’s it,” Tony said, his voice raspy. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

“Don’t be silly.” Kate shook her head. “I’m not a child. I’ll be fine.” Although having him carry her sounded wonderful, Kate didn’t want to be seen as weak. She took a deep breath and fought back her raging emotions. “I’m just reacting to . . . to everything. Being in Gerard’s trunk . . . It was awful.”

Tony frowned at her. “Did you actually see Gerard?” he asked.

Kate shook her head slowly. “No. Someone hit me over the head right after you called. I wasn’t even out of bed yet. Then I woke up in the trunk of a car. Eventually I found the release latch and jumped out. I never saw him, but who else could it be?”

“Maybe it’s one of his followers.”

“I don’t understand how anyone, including Gerard, could know I was here.” Kate had been wondering about that ever since the kidnapping. Weren’t the Marshals the only people who were aware of her location?

“Uh, maybe we could finish this conversation in the cabin?” Bobby said.

Kate and Tony looked at him. Bobby was not an attractive man when he was dry. But wet he looked like a drenched basset hound. Kate had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Since she’d just cried like a baby, giggling now seemed a little manic.

“You’re right,” Tony said. “Let’s keep going.” He peered closely at Kate. “Are you sure you can go on? You probably don’t weigh one hundred pounds wet. I could easily carry you.”

She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Let’s get a move on. I’m forgetting what dry feels like.”

Tony seemed reluctant to allow her to walk on her own, but Kate was determined to hold herself together. She’d survived this long. She had no intention of allowing Tony and Bobby to babysit her.

Once they started walking again, Kate literally had to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Fisher,” Leon said.

The man who’d opened the door and let him inside his dilapidated house seemed too frail to be breathing. Now he sat in an old orange recliner with torn fabric, staring at Leon with large watery eyes, his face gray and his lips thin and pale.

“Before this week, ain’t no one asked about Darrell for over twenty years. Had to find out what ’choo wanted.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know where he is?”

Leon shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. You said on the phone that you and your nephew are the only relatives Dorothy had who are still living?”

“Yep. Far as I know.”

Leon was trying to ignore the stench in the house. It was almost overpowering. A combination of boiled cabbage, stale meat, and urine. That last smell seemed to be coming from the couch where Leon sat. Empty food cartons littered a rickety coffee table, and magazines were stacked up next to Fred Fisher’s chair. The house looked as tired as its owner.

“You know we had to dig up your sister’s gravesite?”

When Fisher nodded, it reminded Leon of a broken bobblehead doll.

“Yep. They called me before they did it. I told them it was okay. I mean, Dorothy’s gone, right? Diggin’ up her grave? I don’t think she’d mind, so why would I?”

“Do you know what we found?”

“Sure, they told me all about it. Ann Barton. She was a sweet little thing. It’s so sad.”

“You knew Ann?”

“Sure. Everyone in town knew her. She worked over at the market. Darrell was really upset when she went missing. She was always nice to him when most people wasn’t.”

Leon nodded. “I’ve heard the same things about her. People seemed to like her.”

“You didn’t know her?”

Leon shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I only met her family . . . after.”

Fisher cocked his head to the side and stared at Leon, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. “Why are you here, Sergeant?”

“I just wanted to know more about Dorothy. I’m wondering why anyone would pick her grave as a resting place for Ann. Do you have any ideas about that?”

Fisher looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. Leon assumed it meant he was thinking, but he couldn’t be sure. He resisted the urge to glance up. Finally, the elderly man lowered his gaze and met Leon’s eyes.

“I truly have no idea. Dorothy seemed to draw trouble to herself, though. She was my sister, and I loved her, but she had her problems. When her boyfriend, Darrell’s father, passed away, she started drinkin’. Runnin’ around. Didn’t spend much time with Darrell. He . . . he wasn’t a happy child—or a happy teenager. When Dorothy died, I think he was . . . relieved.”

“How did she die, Mr. Fisher?”

The old man waved his hand at Leon. “Fred. Just call me Fred.”

“Okay, how did she die, Fred?”

The old man repositioned himself in his ratty recliner. He was not much more than skin and bones, and it was obvious he was in pain. “Got drunk and fell down the stairs. At least it was quick.”

“And what happened to Darrell?”

“He and that friend of his took off right after the funeral. Never seen ’em since.”

“His friend?”

Fred nodded. “Can’t remember his name now. Sorry. Might be somewhere in Darrell’s things.”

“His things?”

Fred nodded. “After Dorothy died, I found a metal box full of stuff that belonged to Darrell. He hid it under loose boards in his closet. Dorothy would take stuff from the house and sell it for booze. I guess Darrell felt he had to hide his belongings. Nothing left in there worth anything, though. Even so, it’s about all I have left of my sister and my nephew.”

Leon took a deep breath. “Fred, would you let me see that box? I’ll be careful with it.”

Fred grunted. “Sure. Didn’t tell that other policeman about the box. Something about him I didn’t trust. But you can take the box if you want. That boy ain’t comin’ back. Not while I’m alive, anyway.” Fred pointed toward the hallway. “It’s up in the attic. Just pull on that rope and the ladder will come down.”

“Wait a minute. Did you say there was another police officer who asked about Darrell?”

“Yeah, four or five days ago. After the feds asked me if they could dig up Dorothy’s grave. This guy wanted me to tell him about Darrell and his friend. Told him just what I told you. That was about it.”

Leon was aware that someone from the FBI had been by to see Fred about the gravesite, but was surprised he’d asked about Darrell. Maybe someone else was wondering about the connection just like he was.

Although Leon wasn’t sure Darrell had left anything behind that would be helpful, he had to know why a serial killer would put his victim in Dorothy Fisher’s grave. Leon couldn’t let go of the notion that there was a reason behind it. Something that might be important. Linda had told him more than once that he was like a dog with a bone when it came to the Ann Barton case. She was right.

He got up and walked halfway down the hallway until he found the rope. He pulled it gently and, sure enough, an old wooden ladder slid down to the floor—along with several years of dust, making him cough.

“If you make a mess, you gotta clean it up,” Fred called out.

Even though Fred’s house was probably the definition of the word mess, Leon assured Fred he’d take care of it. He gingerly climbed up the old ladder until he could see into the attic. Thankfully, the metal box was only a couple of feet away. Leon leaned in and grabbed it, scooting it near him. Once he had hold of the handle, he carefully backed down the ladder. Then he pushed the ladder back up and the attic door closed. He walked down the hall to the kitchen. The smell of old cabbage was even stronger there, and he had to fight to keep from gagging. The source of the stink was easy to find. An old pot of boiled cabbage sat in the sink. Had probably been there for a week or more. He finally found some yellowed paper towels, turned on the water in the sink, and dampened them. After cleaning off the metal box, he wadded up several other towels so he could wipe up the dust on the old wooden floor in the hallway. Before he left the room, he opened the door to the refrigerator. Some old dried-up apples, a bowl of something that looked like lumpy oatmeal, and a bottle of mustard. That was it. Leon closed the door quietly. It was obvious the old man needed help.

After cleaning up the hallway the best he could, Leon took the box back into the living room.

“Put it there,” Fred said, pointing at the coffee table full of trash.

Leon pushed some of the empty boxes and wrappers aside and set down the box. Then he unlatched it and opened the lid. Inside he found several items. Some assorted papers, baseball cards, a couple of pens, some Valentine’s cards, two high-school yearbooks, and two small notebooks.

Fred leaned over and pointed at one of the yearbooks. “Wondered where that was. Darrell’s in there,” he said. “Don’t got no other pictures of him. Used to, but I don’t know what happened to ’em. Musta thrown ’em out, I guess.”

Leon opened the book and thumbed through it. In the back, he found a list of students. Sure enough, Darrell R. Fisher was listed. Leon turned to the page and found him. An unremarkable young man with dead eyes stared back at him. Leon immediately felt compassion for the boy. For many kids, high school was like being thrown into a large pool of sharks. Children could be cruel, and it was easy for kids to believe that whatever happened in high school set the course for their lives. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Leon remembered running into the head cheerleader from his high school ten years after graduation. She was working at a fast-food joint while trying to raise two kids by herself after her football-hero boyfriend dumped her for someone younger. Her haughty attitude in high school had been replaced with eyes full of quiet desperation. Real life had trampled her high-school persona into dust.

On the other side of the coin, the high-school geek with the big glasses who carried a briefcase to school now owned a chain of real estate companies across the country. He lived in the nicest house in town and had married a beautiful woman.

High school wasn’t all that important. A flash in the pan that meant nothing when it came to the rest of your real life. If only young people could realize that, Leon was convinced it would greatly reduce the number of teenage suicides.

“That’s Darrell,” Fred said, pointing to the photo Leon stared at. Fred reached over and pulled out the other yearbook. Leon noticed for the first time that it was from a different school.

“Holcomb High School?” Leon asked. “Did Darrell attend Holcomb, too?”

Fred shook his head. “Nah, his good-for-nothin’ friend went there. Those two boys were thick as thieves. Always gettin’ into trouble. I think that kid talked Darrell into leavin’ town.”

“But you can’t remember his name?” Leon asked.

“Nah, it’s been too long. Besides, Darrell didn’t call him by his name. Had some nickname for him. Just can’t quite remember it.”

Leon put the books back in the box. “You sure you don’t mind if I borrow this for a while?”

Fred shrugged. “Like I said, you can keep it. I don’t need it no more.”

Leon stood up and stretched out his hand. Fred shook it. “Thanks, Fred. I really appreciate your help. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“You do that, Sergeant. Glad to have the company.”

As Leon left, he wondered how many more days Fred Fisher had left on earth. At least he could make sure they were lived a little better. He and Linda would call their church and get some people to clean Fred’s house and bring him some food. He knew Linda would probably cook up a storm. She had many talents, and cooking was certainly one of them. Even though Fred seemed like a proud man, Leon was pretty sure he’d accept the help. He was obviously ill and needed assistance.

As Leon walked to his car, he wasn’t certain he’d gotten any answers to his questions about Dorothy Fisher, but at least he’d become aware of Fred’s situation.

For now, that would have to be enough.