Cache a Predator (25 page)

She answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Sorry, I’m running late. I had to stop by the office, but I’m on my way.”

“No problem. I’m in the barn.”

As Brett drove to her house, he rehearsed the questions he’d ask her. Yes, he wanted her help in profiling the perp, but he wanted to know more about her father too. What had their relationship been like? Certainly Officer Hudson would know soon if Mr. Samuel’s body had been tampered with. He shuddered.

Brett drove the cruiser up a long and steep rock driveway. Oak and pine trees waved their branches, welcoming him. Max’s tongue hung out of his mouth, and his tail wagged. Brett double-checked the address on the GPS.

This was where she lived? He surveyed the surroundings, the estate-sized home and property. He never imagined her living in a place this large, although he hadn’t thought much about where she lived until now, but she seemed so unassuming. She must have inherited this home. He doubted she could afford it on her salary. The driveway climbed toward a large two-story stone home with an iron fence. Sprawling green pastures and a barn surrounded the back side of the property. Wire fencing hugged the boundaries. A black horse grazed in a nearby field next to a red barn.

That must be the horse Quinn wanted to ride
. He continued around to the barn, his tires crunching on the gravel, and parked next to a white Ford F-150.

Sarah appeared outside the barn’s entrance. She wore a plaid ruffled shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Wisps of her long blond hair fell from her ponytail and blew across her face. She smiled and waved.

He hitched in a breath. The way the sunlight fell onto her blond streaks made her hair seem to glow. His fingers trembled like a schoolboy’s on his first date. He scolded himself for being attracted to the same woman who’d told him Quinn would be safe. A part of him wanted to scream at her again, but another part wanted to run to her, hold her, and breathe in her softness.

He shut off the car and set his sunglasses on the dashboard, then climbed out of the sedan. “This is quite a place you have here.”

“Thanks.” She ambled toward him. “It’s been in my mother’s family for a century. I’m sentimental about it. The house looks larger than it is. The upstairs is closed off. I live on the main floor.” She continued walking toward his car, squinting in the sun, her hands in her back pockets. “How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.” He walked around to the passenger side door. “Is it okay if I let Max out?”

“Certainly! I can’t believe you found him!” A smile stretched across her face, flashing her white teeth as her eyes turned to Max in the backseat.

Brett let the dog out, who padded over to Sarah as if he’d known her his whole life. His tail swooshed back and forth in the dirt, causing dust to fly. Sarah laughed and knelt in front of the dog, taking his head in her hands and rubbing his ears. “Hi, boy,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut as he licked her face. “You’re welcome here anytime. We’re used to having animals around.” She messed up his hair and stroked his back.

“He showed up last night. I’m taking it as a sign of hope, but I’m not letting him out of my sight, either.”

“I don’t blame you.” The horse whinnied from the pasture and moved closer to the gate. Sarah said, “That’s Beauty. Do you ride?”

“Never have. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to try. I’ve never had the opportunity, but I don’t think today would be the day to start.”

“I agree. Come into the house.” She led him up the driveway through a side door and into a kitchen.

At the time he’d called Sarah to talk about the perp’s profile, meeting her at her home seemed like the right thing to do, but now that he was here it felt too personal. He’d needed someone to talk to, and she seemed sincere about helping him, so how could he resist? But now he needed to ask her questions about her father too. And sleep deprivation prevented him from thinking clearly.

The house smelled of beef and gravy. “Wow, it smells good in here.”

“Crock pots are handy for that kind of thing. They make your house smell good for days. Can I get you a bowl? It’s stew.” She sat on a chair, pulled her leather boots off, and set them on a rug next to the door.

He bent over to unlace his shoes, but she told him not to worry, to leave them on, so he stomped his feet on the rug. “I don’t want to impose, and I’m not sure I have much of an appetite.”

“No imposition. This is the least I can do.” She paused and tilted her head, her serious expression confirming her sincerity. “I always make extra. And you need to eat.” She nodded toward his waist. “You’re thin.”

His ears burned. No woman, except for his mother, had noticed or taken the time to comment on his physique in a long time—at least not that he’d known about.

She pulled out a chair for him to sit on and poured him a glass of tea. Then she set spoons and napkins on the table.

He watched as she glided across the room, so at ease in her home and in the kitchen, her confidence showing in the way she held her head and squared her shoulders.

What was he doing thinking about her and watching her? This was police business. He needed to suppress his thoughts about how attractive she was and talk to her about Quinn.

“Quinn called me.”

Sarah stopped and spun around to look at him. “What?”

Brett explained all he knew. He told her about the description of where she was and the perp’s blue truck.

Sarah covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes misted. “This is good news. She’s alive, and—”

“She was scared.” Brett shook his head. “I can’t think about it.” He took a deep breath, looking up at her. “It’s better if I stay focused on my questions and not let myself go there—you know, think about if she’s safe.”

Sarah nodded. “I understand. Ask me anything.”

“Didn’t you say you grew up around here?”

“Yep.” She motioned to her surroundings. “This was the house I grew up in.” She scooped the stew into two bowls and set them on the table.

“Do you know anyone with the last name Samuel?” He watched her reaction.

“Why?” She filled a bowl with shredded cheese.

“Police business. That’s all.”

“Did he do something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that, but he died recently, and I’m trying to find out a little about him.”

She sat in the chair across from him at the table. “Don’t wait for me. Dig in.” She hesitated. “Levi Samuel was my father.” She stared out the window.

He reached for his spoon without taking his eyes off her. “I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand and chortled. “Don’t be. I loathed the man. If he were still alive, I wouldn’t be in this house right now. I guess you could say we didn’t see eye to eye. He’s been
dead
to me ever since I left for college.”

“Why?”

She gazed out the window. “I spent years trying to forget him, and I’d rather not start remembering him now, so if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about him.” She smiled. “Did you want to ask me specific profile questions about your perp?” Her tone had lightened.

He nodded. Obviously, she didn’t want to talk about her father, but he needed to press her. “Can I ask you one question about your father?”

“Like?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Why is your last name different from his?”

“I don’t know what this has to do with Quinn, but I changed my name years ago so I wouldn’t be reminded of him every time I signed my name.” She passed Brett a plate of crackers. “Does that help?”

He smiled and nodded even though he wanted to ask her more. It was obvious she was very defensive about him, but because he didn’t know for sure if her father was the first victim he wouldn’t press her. Yet. Maybe Officer Hudson would call him soon and he’d know for certain one way or another.

“Tell me what you know so far.”

Brett reached for a few crackers and set them on his plate. He blew on the stew, took a bite, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “This is really good.”

“Thanks.”

“You work with children who live in troubled homes, and I think our guy had a messed-up youth. He seems to have something against sex offenders, which makes us think he himself could have been abused. The perp severs the sex offender’s man-part after he tourniquets them so they won’t bleed to death—which tells us he doesn’t want to kill them. The first victim was a dead man, but the others he kept alive. He wants them to live without their—”

When Brett looked up, Sarah had lost all color in her cheeks. She stared at him, her mouth agape. “Oh, I get it now. You think my father could have been the first victim—that someone cut his—”

“I have to look at every possibility.”

“But who would do that to my father?” She licked her lips, seemingly nervous.

“What about your brother? Didn’t I meet him at your office?”

“Dean?” She laughed and crossed her arms. “No way. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Do you have any other siblings?”

“No, there’s just the two of us. Has someone verified that our father’s body has been tampered with?”

“No, not yet, but—”

“Then let’s move on. I’m sure he’ll have all his body parts.”

Brett furrowed his brow. “Okay, I’m sorry I upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Okay.” But she was. Brett could tell. He explained about the chloroform and the ketamine. “I think he might work in a morgue, or a medical place, or with animals—somewhere he might have access to drugs.”

Sarah pushed her bowl aside and crossed her arms again. “How do you know it’s a man? I know more women who are man-haters than men.”

Had her demeanor suddenly changed? Was she acting defensively? “Quinn said a man had her hostage, and he liked to play games.” He carefully watched her expression.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? I counsel women every day who are angry about how men have abused them emotionally, physically, and spiritually, but Quinn would know.”

Brett’s skin prickled at Sarah’s sudden cold demeanor. He narrowed his eyes and continued. “The perp seems methodical, almost neurotically clean about what he does. He isn’t staging any of the victims, and he plays games with their penis by planting them in geo-sites.”

“Oh, so that’s what you found in the site yesterday?”

He nodded. “What does that tell us about our guy?”

She seemed to be thinking. “Typically the more organized, methodical, control-freak types are firstborns, unless—”

“Unless what?”

“The family dynamics in one family differ from another. There are many variables. Sometimes the firstborn and second-born children have reversed roles and the second-born is more organized and methodical, so we can’t assume your perp’s birth order with certainty.”

Was this the situation with her and Dean? Was he the methodical one? Ali and Mark seemed to fit the traditional scenario. Mark was the firstborn and definitely the more organized of the two, but he guessed either one didn’t really mean anything.

Sarah continued. “If one of the siblings has a disability, the other might compensate for that too. Add abuse to the scenario, and the dynamics can change too. So again, it’s tough to know the birth order of your guy.” Sarah stared out the window.

What was she thinking?

She continued, still looking out. “As far as where this perp might live? Based on what you’ve told me he might be a recluse. Someone who lives alone, maybe a social deviate. Someone who doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

Brett finished drinking his tea. “Obviously he’s a geocacher too. You’ve been geocaching for a while. Do you know anyone who might fit this profile?”

She stared into her bowl of soup. “Not offhand, but I’ll think about it. It’s possible he might be a muggle.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a geocaching term for someone who doesn’t know much about geocaching. Someone who sits near the cache site, preventing the hiker from searching the area. They’re people who get in the way.”

“But if he’s depositing peckers in cache sites, he knows more about geocaching than I did. I didn’t even know what geocaching was until the Boy Scouts brought the first one in. He’d have to understand the concept anyway.”

Sarah rose and rinsed their dishes in the sink. “There are muggles who know nothing about geocaching, and then there are muggles who don’t really play the game; they just steal the flag.”

Brett rubbed his eyes. “The flag?”

“The prizes inside.” Sarah returned to her seat.

“What do you call those who deposit, er,
things
instead of take them?”

“I have no idea. Mugglers?” She laughed.

Brett tried to rub the sandpaper sensation out of his eyes. “Do you know anyone in Hursey Lake who fits this ‘firstborn or second-born, abused, recluse’ profile?”

Sarah laughed and took a sip of tea. “There could be two dozen kids or adults in Hursey Lake who might hold a grudge against sex offenders. Do you have any idea how many children are abused in this county?”

“No, I don’t.”

She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “More than you know, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame some of them if they’d done this.”

Brett shook his head. “Really? Would you?”

There. He’d said it. He held his breath.

Her eyes seemed to search his. “Do you mean could
I
have done something like this? Is that what you’re really asking?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sarah’s heart fluttered like a bat’s wings trapped in an airless bag. Did Brett really believe she could be the perp? She whispered, “Is that what you think? That I could maim these men and kidnap your daughter?”

His face turned crimson, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t believe that, because we know it’s a man, but I don’t really know much about you.”

She nodded. “You’re right about that. You don’t.”

“There are things about you that I … don’t understand,” Brett stammered. “All I know is that your relationship with your father was less than perfect, based on what you told me, which wasn’t very much. You also geocache—which fits the profile of our guy.”

Tears brimmed her eyes. She reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a wadded tissue, and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve spent the last ten years trying to forget what happened between my father and me. He abused me emotionally and sexually. He was an evil man. A control freak. But I vowed I’d overcome the pain. I left his home when I was eighteen, and spent years studying psychology, getting my counseling degree so I could help others. I changed my name, determined to rid my veins of his poison. I’m a nurturer. Not a psychopath.”