Buried (A Bone Secrets Novel 03) (20 page)

One gift basket had caught his eye during one of his foggy moments. Individually wrapped cellophane Twinkies filled a red toy bucket, clear wrap fastened with a red bow at the top. It’d sat
across his room nearly hidden by balloons, but it stood out like a spotlight to him. He’d stared at it, unable to get himself out of bed. He’d drift off to sleep, but the bucket was still there each time he woke. Sometimes moved to another tabletop to make room for more gifts. When he finally woke with a nurse in his room, he’d pointed at the bucket. Shock had crossed her face. He’d never made eye contact with any of his caretakers before, but he was making contact now. He pointed again. And met her eyes.

“You want to see your gifts?” she’d asked, excitement in her voice. She reached for a stuffed animal. Chris shook his head and pointed again. She hesitated and placed the animal back, trying to follow his line of sight. “You want the red bucket?”

He nodded.

“I’ll let you look at it, but I don’t think you should eat any right now. I can ask a doctor later if you can have one.” She lifted the bucket and peered inside.

Chris emphatically shook his head. No way would he eat a Twinkie. The nurse faltered at his head movement, assuming she’d grabbed the wrong gift again. He gestured for her to bring it closer. She set it on the bed next to him, and he reached for the envelope. Correction. He tried to reach for the small envelope. His hands wouldn’t obey his brain.

The nurse gently lifted the note and slid out the card. “Looks like it’s already been opened and read.” She scanned the note, a small crease appearing between her brows. “It’s not signed. But some of the arrangements from the public haven’t been signed.” She smiled at him, “They can’t help but send you things. You’ve been missing for quite a while, and they’re happy you’re home.”

Chris did an awkward “hurry up” gesture with his hand, his stomach starting to churn.

She looked back at the note and read out loud: “Get well soon, Chris. Your family is extremely lucky to have you back. I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full until you go home.”

Chris vomited all over his bed.

In Juan’s attic, Chris’s vision blurred. Bile came up the back of his throat, and he lunged for the garbage can. He heaved. And heaved.

I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.

He heaved again, the nurse’s voice ringing in his memory. He sank to his knees, leaning over the can, waiting for his stomach to hold still. Sweat dripped from his forehead into the can. Chris fell back against the wall, sliding to sit on the floor, the can clutched between his hands.

Fuck.

He hadn’t had a reaction like that in at least six months. The discovery of the children’s remains had brought everything fresh to the surface. He spit into the can, wincing at the acid taste. Not ready to get up, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed a few more minutes. He breathed deep through his mouth in an attempt to not smell his own vomit. That technique semi-worked.

Twinkies. Fucking Twinkies.

His empty stomach churned.

The Ghostman had a Twinkie fetish. Healthy food was rarely available in the Ghostman’s pit, but Twinkies always were. At first the kids were thrilled at the constant supply of the junk snack. But watching the Ghostman eat one…cleaning out the center with his tongue…that was enough to make a kid put the little cake back up. Then later…when the Ghostman wanted the boys to hold the Twinkies in their mouths…

Chris’s stomach found more fluids to hurl into the can.

I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.

Fucking nut job. Perverted child abuser.
Salty wet tracks ran down Chris’s face.

At that moment in the hospital, Chris had known he could never say a word about his two years with the Ghostman. The Ghostman had found him. And proved that even in a hospital with a cop standing outside the door to keep the media vultures away, the Ghostman could touch him. The note was a reminder directed at his family.

Your family is extremely lucky to have you back.

If Chris told his family anything, the Ghostman would make his threats against their lives come true. His only way to protect his family was to be silent. He made a vow to himself. No matter the cost, Chris would never speak of those days.

Brian sighed in his sleep. Chris had made another vow. His son would never know the touch of a pervert like the one who had owned him. His son would never have his life turned upside down and inside out. Chris had kept that promise. Brian never lacked for company or stimulation. Chris was his best friend, teacher, playmate, and confidant. Brian didn’t remember his mother. Occasionally he asked, but the answer that his mommy was an angel satisfied him. For now. The harder questions would come later.

He blew out a deep breath. His stomach was quieting. He slowly pulled himself off the floor and carried the garbage can to the bathroom. He flushed the contents, rinsed the can three times, and flushed it again. He silently walked through the little room, glancing at his laptop. All quiet at his home. Perhaps he was being too cautious. Too overprotective.

He will never touch Brian.

No. Chris wasn’t overprotective. Until he knew that the Ghostman was dead, he had a son to safeguard.

He reached through the window and placed the can out on the roof. The smell still lingered. He considered closing the window, but the room was too warm. The odor should dissipate. He gazed out over the quiet street and thought about Brian playing with Juan’s dog. Every boy should have a dog. Maybe when things calmed down, he could find a dog. One who needed a good home. Perhaps a rescue dog. It would be a good situation for both of them.

A small sliver of the moon hung low in the dark night. Chris stared. He liked the quiet of this town. He liked the open sky and the open land. He didn’t want to move again. This was the only home Brian had known. He wanted to keep that sense of stability for the boy. But if he felt threatened or unsafe, he and Brian would be on the road before the sun came up. He had a dozen plans in place if he ever needed to leave. It gave him peace of mind to know the two of them could vanish without leaving a trace. He prayed he never needed to implement those plans. He felt good here. He felt like he could breathe. Like he could heal.

Chris stretched, feeling his right shoulder pop. It’d never been the same since the Ghostman’s hands. He massaged the joint as he went to close his laptop. Enough monitoring for tonight. He was about to fall asleep standing up. He put his hand on the lid and froze.

A man was standing outside his home, his back flat to the front wall, peering in a window. The small sliver of moonlight found the gun in the man’s hand. Chris stared at the man’s hair. He recognized the man’s stance, the angle of his face.

It was time to leave Demming.

It was four in the morning, and no one was at Chris’s home.

Gerald had easily found the small house. A double-wide trailer surrounded by a swatch of tall firs standing alone on a small rocky plateau. He’d left his vehicle a half mile away in another group of trees and brush. He hadn’t seen another car since he left the town.

Talk about rolling up the sidewalks. The small town had shut off every light in the “city” area by eight p.m. Even the gas station had closed by seven. Last evening, he’d kept a distant view of Michael and Jamie as they’d eaten dinner at the diner. After that, they’d gone to a bed-and-breakfast and not come out. Apparently, they were waiting until the following day to meet up with her brother.

By the pale light of the moon, Gerald went through the drawers, pulling out everything. He figured if Chris wasn’t home by now, he wouldn’t be coming home at all tonight. Clothes piled at his feet as he ran his hand under and around each drawer. He was beginning to wonder if he had the right house. He wasn’t finding any sign that Chris Jacobs lived here.

He steamed. He’d had a plan, an expectation. And it was all going to hell. Every ounce of him wanted to put an end to the man who’d eluded him for years. And it looked like he’d slipped away again. His hands and psyche were aching for blood.

He stalked to the small kitchen and did the same number on the drawers in there. No scraps of mail, no bills, nothing with Jacobs’s name. There weren’t any photographs either. The only things hanging on the walls were the artwork of a child. Looking at the toys and clothes, it was a young boy. Younger than ten. Gerald bent over and started on the cupboards. Pots, pans, bowls. Nothing that indicated who lived in the house.

He opened the fridge. He’d seen those fake bottles before that people hid important papers or money in. He checked the small amount of condiments and found them all to be legit. He grabbed the carton of milk and peered at the date. It didn’t expire for another seven days, so someone had been here recently.

Would Jacobs have a child? He hadn’t found any women’s clothing or women’s touches around the house. The bathroom only held male toiletries. Where was the child’s mother? Divorced? Again, Gerald wondered if he had the right house.

He pulled the cushions off the couch, unzipped them, and ripped the covers off. Nothing.

Damn it!

There was no landline, no computer, but there was a desk that looked like it was missing a laptop. A printer sat close by, and there were several bookshelves full of computer programming books. He marched back to the main bedroom and stared, letting his eyes travel the room. What had he missed?

He scanned the blank walls. Whoever lived here, lived like they’d never settled in.

He froze as the thought hit him. Or lived like they were ready to leave at a moment’s notice, without leaving a trail.

No papers, no pictures.

Satisfaction flowed through him; he was definitely standing in the right house.

This was the house of a shadowman. Who now had a son to hide.

Within fifteen minutes of seeing the Ghostman on his laptop, his heart racing, Chris had Brian packed in the truck. The sleepy
boy leaned against the side rest of his booster, unable to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t asked a single question about being awakened in the middle of the night. Chris was always ready to travel light. Every item he owned had a mentally attached tag of “take” or “leave” on it. Everything he’d ever bought, he’d considered whether it’d be something he needed to abandon if he had to leave town fast or if the item was light and necessary to pack.

He didn’t say good-bye to Juan. The old man was a light sleeper and had surely heard them leave. Years ago, he’d briefly told Juan that someday, someone might come looking for him, but he kept details to a minimum. The old man easily read between the lines, and he knew Chris would run without stopping if he thought Brian was in danger.

Through numerous mental dry runs and the occasional real one, Chris had packing and vanishing down to a science. And now it was paying off. He and Brian had made long car trips south into Mexico, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go. There was a tiny, sleepy town on the western coast of Mexico. Life was slow, and the people seemed kind and not nosy. Not like here. The town gossips tried to stick their noses in his life every now and then, pretending concern for how he was raising his son. He’d considered making the move a few years ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the US. He’d lost almost everything. His parents, Brian’s mother. Living in the US was one of his last connections with his previous life.

Elena had shown him the small Mexican town. Her grandparents had lived there, and she’d visited often as a child.

Elena.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Her death had left a gaping wound in his heart. She’d been such an innocent. He’d fallen in love with her simple ways and immediate acceptance of his scars. She saw past them to who he
was inside. Only she could calm his nightmares, and she brought him peace. He still felt that peace at times with his son. Brian was a little living piece of Elena.

He had a strong suspicion of what’d happened the night she died. Elena had been out of communication with her family for several years. Her brothers ran drugs, and violence surrounded their lives. She’d wanted nothing to do with it and had left. A few weeks before her accident, she’d finally been contacted by her oldest brother, who’d demanded that she return home. She’d refused. When the brother realized she was living with a man and had a child out of wedlock, he’d flipped. A strong Catholic, her brother increased the pressure.