Last Light (25 page)

She waited, giving him time to think. A man appeared at the door behind Saylor, his palms spread against the screen as he looked wistfully at TK. Unlike Saylor, he had light-colored hair and eyes. He was thin, in his mid-thirties, and when TK met his gaze, his face lit up as if she was the answer to his prayers.

She slowly rose and approached Alan as if he were a wild animal. But he didn’t bolt. Instead, his smile widened and he pushed the door open a crack, the hinges squeaking.

Saylor looked over his shoulder, smiled at his son, and beckoned for him to join them. “It’s all right.”

Alan bolted through the door and flung his arms around TK, lifting her off her feet in a movement filled with pure joy.

“You look a lot like his favorite counselor at the center in Abilene,” Saylor explained, getting to his feet and gently tapping his son on the arm. “He never gets to meet new people—does better with a strict schedule and structure. But he obviously likes you.”

Alan finally released TK from the bear hug and stepped back, eyes downcast shyly.

“So nice to meet you, Alan,” she said. His gaze snapped up at the sound of his name. “My name is TK.”

Saylor slid his phone from his pocket, squinting at the screen. Moments later, the sound of a car approaching caught her attention. Saylor was also on full alert, reaching for his shotgun once again. TK was no stranger to bunker mentality but couldn’t imagine living like that for twenty-nine years. If they could prove Roscoe Blackwell was the killer, maybe Saylor and his family could finally enjoy some freedom from fear?

Then she recognized the vehicle. David Ruiz’s SUV. It stopped at the gate and the passenger door opened. A very unhappy Lucy Guardino climbed down, glaring at TK as she limped down the drive.

<><><>

AT LEAST DREW SAYLOR
hadn’t shot TK, Lucy thought as she made her way to the gate. David waved and did a U-turn, heading back out the drive.

Saylor touched his phone and the gate swung open. She’d only managed a few steps, cursing her rebellious left ankle spiking with pain, when Alan came running toward her. He said nothing, not verbally, but his body language spoke volumes as he wrapped her into a joyful hug.

“Nice to see you again, Alan,” she said, patting his arm like she’d noticed his mother doing that morning. He responded by gently releasing her, one palm pressed against her injured side as if supporting her. Pretty observant kid. Made her wonder exactly how impaired he really was.

TK joined her as well. “Thought we agreed I’d be doing this. Without parental supervision.”

Implying that Lucy thought TK was too young and inexperienced to handle a tricky interview by herself. Not far from the truth, but how was Lucy supposed to trust her when she’d only known TK for a day and had yet to see how she would handle herself?

“We only have one shot at this,” Lucy said. “Figured it was better as a team effort.”

They joined Saylor on the porch. He looked nervous, as if unused to having so many strangers at his home. Alan seemed perfectly at ease, plopping down on the porch swing and patting either side of him for TK and Lucy to join him. TK glanced at Lucy and took the lead, sliding in on Alan’s left.

“Mr. Saylor,” Lucy began to apologize, glad that TK hadn’t disturbed the boy but also embarrassed by the younger woman’s actions.

He held a hand up. “TK explained it to me. I had no idea, never dreamed I could be so wrong.”

“I told him Caleb Blackwell identified the murder weapon as belonging to his father. And about Roscoe Blackwell’s affair with Lily Martin.” TK kept her voice soft as if these were ordinary facts to discuss rather than ones that provided a man with a motive to annihilate an entire family. Alan’s family.

The fact that Sheriff Blackwell had volunteered the information about the revolver was a bit surprising, but it fit with everything else that they were uncovering. Still, Lucy couldn’t help but wonder at the man’s motivations.

“They’re running the bullets for fingerprints,” Lucy told Saylor. “Roscoe Blackwell’s prints should be in the database, right?”

“They were in our elimination set—privacy issues, those were destroyed once the case was closed. But they should also have them from his suicide. You’ll need to ask them to pull those from the old archives—they’re paper only, wouldn’t have been scanned into any of the newer digital databases.”

“We’ll ask Prescott to take care of that.”

TK made a noise. “You got Prescott to cooperate?”

Lucy ignored her and edged Saylor farther away from Alan. “Did anyone ever talk to Alan about what happened?”

“They tried.” Saylor turned so both their backs were to the porch swing. “It was clear he remembered something terrible. He’d go into a full-blown panic attack. But he was never able to communicate anything or answer any questions, not even with a yes-no head nod.”

“How does he communicate?”

“Beth taught him a little sign language—he can only manage a few words, but it’s enough. He knows his alphabet, can read at a second grade level. Mostly, we just know him well enough that we don’t need any words—you’ve seen how he is. Emotionally, he’s as honest and easy to read as the six-year-old he was when it happened.”

She sighed. “Some days I wonder if we wouldn’t all be better off that way.”

“Despite what happened, most days he wakes up and sees the world as filled with joy. As if seeing it for the first time.” His expression was a mixed blessing: sorrow and gratitude and love. “Kept me going all these years. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Has anyone ever tried a cognitive interview? Not direct questions, more of a sensory based re-creation of the events—”

“I know what a cognitive interview is,” he interrupted her. “Look, what I did with the Manning brothers, those interrogations, you have to understand, I’d only been elected sheriff a few weeks earlier. Not a clue what I was doing. Hell, back then, no one knew what we know now. Not an excuse, just saying, I learned along the way.”

“Twenty-nine years is a long time to be living afraid for your family’s safety.”

He hung his head. “I really thought…but if I was wrong, if it wasn’t the Mannings and Ronnie Powell, then I can’t let an innocent man rot in prison.”

“Can we talk with Alan? Have him look at some photos? With you right here with him, of course.”

Saylor’s forehead creased with worry. “Let me see them first.”

TK sprang up and reached for her canvas laptop bag sitting near the railing. She fished out a handful of papers and gave them to Saylor. He shuffled through them. “Not this booking photo of Dicky. It’s much too scary. The others, I guess they’re okay.”

Lucy glanced at TK. Alan seemed to have bonded with her. “You sure about this?”

“Yes.” The younger woman straightened, a Marine’s backbone shining through her posture. “I can do it.” She glanced at Saylor and then Alan. “Without upsetting him.”

She resumed her seat beside Alan on the swing. “Alan, I hear you’re a pretty smart kid when it comes to remembering things. Do you remember the Goldilocks story I was just telling you?”

He nodded eagerly.

“How many bears were in it?”

He held up a hand with three fingers.

“Three. That’s right. Good job.” She squeezed his arm in encouragement. “Okay, now this one might be tougher. I want you to remember way, way back to when you were little. Something scary happened back then—but it’s only a memory, a story, like Goldilocks, so even though it’s scary, you don’t have to worry because your dad, he’s right here and so are Lucy and me.”

Alan’s smile faded, sunshine banished by storm clouds.

Saylor moved to squat in front of his son. “Hey, champ, if it’s too scary, just let me know and we can stop any time. Got it?”

Slowly, his lips tight, eyes creased, Alan nodded.

“Okay,” TK began again. “So what I want is for you to think back, way back to before the scary thing. Anything you remember is fine. You and your mom and baby sister went to the store, right? Then you drove home. Was there a song playing on the radio? It was almost dark outside, so maybe the birds were singing or the insects chirping? Do you remember anything from back then?”

Alan squinched his face with effort, then nodded again. He tugged his hand free from TK’s and began motioning with it.

“That’s his sign for cookie,” Saylor interpreted. Then he frowned. “He’s signing ‘bad cookie boy,’ over and over. Is that right, Alan? Bad cookie boy?”

Alan opened his eyes wide and nodded so eagerly his chin almost hit his chest and the swing rocked. His hands never stopped moving, the same motions over and over, as if he couldn’t stop. He opened his mouth as if screaming and moved his legs up and down as if running. And still the same signs.

“Bad cookie boy. Bad cookie boy,” Saylor translated.

Alan twisted his head to seek out each adult’s gaze, his own imploring, begging for understanding. His face twisted with frustration and more than a hint of fear as he grew more and more agitated. Saylor pulled him into his arms, hugging him tight, stroking his upper arm, until he calmed.

“What does it mean?” TK asked Lucy.

Lucy motioned to TK. They left Saylor and his son and moved to the opposite side of the porch. “The evidence inventory list, there was a box of cookies on there, right?”

“Empty box, found in the trash. Prints on it came back to the elimination set plus two unknown.”

“The elimination set included Roscoe Blackwell?”

“Roscoe, Caleb, Alan, his family, and all the first responders on scene.” TK frowned. “I saw photos of Roscoe over at Caleb’s house. The guy was huge, built like a big, burly bear. No one would ever call him a boy.”

“He would have seemed even bigger to a scared six-year-old.” Lucy stepped toward the swing where Saylor had coaxed a smile out of Alan once more. Resilient kid. She hated asking any more of him. “Does Alan have a separate sign for man?”

“Sure. Show her, champ.”

Alan beamed at Lucy and moved his right hand from a salute-like motion at his forehead down to his chest. Very different from the duck-quacking motion at his forehead that he’d performed earlier.

“Okay, no mistaking those two.” She turned back to TK. “Do you have the scan of the grocery receipt from that day?”

“Yeah, here you go.” She held her phone out to Lucy. The red low battery light was blinking furiously.

Lucy scrolled down the list of groceries bought and never eaten twenty-nine years ago. “One box of cookies.” She used her own phone to search the other evidence, including the crime scene photos, comparing it to the grocery list. “No other cookies found in the house.”

Saylor approached, keeping his voice low. “We assumed she’d given them to Alan to keep him busy while she unloaded the car and that the unknown prints came from store clerks or other shoppers.” He glanced over his shoulder at Alan who was now swinging happily. “Do you really think the killer stopped to eat cookies? In the middle of all that carnage? And Alan saw him?”

“Or knew who he was, somehow connected him to cookies. We should run those prints from the box through the current databases.” Lucy hesitated. “Besides Alan, there’s only one other boy who’s involved in this case.”

He nodded grimly. “I know. Caleb Blackwell. But he was only twelve—I just can’t see it. Maybe Alan meant something else. TK asked him to focus on the time before the killings. Maybe it was him getting into the cookies and Lily told him he was a bad boy?”

“No way of knowing. How long was Caleb a deputy under you before he was elected sheriff?”

“A little more than ten years, why?”

“So he started with the department about fifteen years ago?”

TK frowned. “Lucy,” her tone held a warning, “we should focus on the Martin case.”

Lucy ignored her. “No concerns during that time?”

Saylor shook his head, obviously puzzled yet also considering the idea that one of his deputies could have been a killer. “No. Nothing. A bit of a brown-noser, played the politics better than most, but I used that to my advantage, set him to more administrative duties.”

“So he wouldn’t have been involved in anything like impounding abandoned vehicles?”

“Well, sure, he still patrolled. We all did back then, even me. What’s this all about?”

“It’s about fourteen missing girls and their cars all being turned into scrap metal by order of the sheriff’s department. All in the past fifteen years, all right here in Blackwell County.”

“NO,” SAYLOR SAID.
“I don’t believe it.” Lucy couldn’t blame him. She was basically implying he’d had a serial killer under his command.

“Neither do I,” TK put in. “Those vehicles could have been diverted by anyone.”

“I may have put two innocent men behind bars,” Saylor continued. “Let’s not condemn another without concrete proof.”

Lucy raised her hands in surrender. “You’re right. TK, could you call Prescott, ask him to run those prints on the cookie box? Tell him it’s for the same reason as running the bullets. He won’t argue.”

“Sure, but my phone is about dead. Can I put it on your charger?”

“Table by the door,” Saylor told her. TK went inside.

While they waited, Lucy told him about what Wash and Tommy had discovered while researching the forfeitures.

Saylor stalked to the corner of the porch farthest from where Alan swung. Lucy joined him.

“What if it was Caleb?” he asked in a low voice. “The Blackwells control everything in this county. No one can touch them.”

“The FBI can. I still have contacts there.”

He hung his head. “Could I really have been such a fool? Not seen it? I mentored that boy, treated him like a son—he lost his own father so young.”

“I’ve been wrong before,” Lucy said. But the more she fit the pieces together, the more certain she was. Although her theory was worthless without evidence.

TK rejoined them a moment later. “No idea what you did to the man, but Prescott was happy to oblige.”