I smile. Damn, I can hardly believe it’s real. But I don’t have cancer, and I might just live a good while longer.
I pitch the ball again. Hell yeah.
My lips fall into a frown as I consider that Liv looked like hell again today. I don’t like that those migraines are taking her down so low. In the time we’ve worked so closely together, I’ve never known her to look anything but healthy and vibrant. She seems almost withdrawn lately. Distracted and fatigued. The big-ass bags under her eyes underscored by the dark circles have me worried. But she went to the doc. I was there in the waiting room. Her doctor didn’t seem overly concerned. These days I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not. Sometimes I think they just run us through like scanning groceries at the supermarket checkout. If you’re turned the wrong way, they might not pick up on the real problem. It’s all scary as hell and it feels like nothing more than the luck of the draw.
The good news is, Liv is smart. And she’s strong. No matter that she’s a little off her game right now, she’ll pull it together. That’s something else I know about her.
“Come on, Sandy.” I stand, stretch my back, and lead the way into the house.
I fill her water bowl and move to the fridge to scrounge around for a late snack. For thirty-five years, I came home to a hot meal prepared from scratch, unless we went out, which was rare. I’m spoiled and mostly inept in the kitchen. I round up cheese and crackers and snag a beer.
With my arm full of goodies, I drop into a chair at the table. My working case file lies open on the table. Photos of the known victims of Carl Fanning and a mug shot of the bastard himself stare up at me. I consider Dana Reeves and Janie Hyatt. Is it possible these two average-looking women—neither of whom looks particularly strong—could be holding Fanning for the purposes of torture or could have killed him already?
There’s no question they were watching him.
I’ve mapped out the route to the cabin Hyatt inherited. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find Fanning there and wrap this one up tomorrow. I could take Friday off and get a few things done around here. God knows I have an avalanche of leave days built up even after all the time I took off with Stella.
My cell phone vibrates against the countertop. I answer with my usual, “Duncan.”
The only sound on the other end is static. I frown. “Hello.”
“Detective Walter Duncan?”
The voice is male. Not one I’ve heard before—that I can recall, anyway. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“This is Mario Sanchez.”
The words break a little, but I still hear and understand that this is the guy on a climbing trip down in Mexico. “Sanchez, thank you for calling.”
I stay perfectly still just in case a movement in one direction or the other might cause the connection to drop off. I vividly remember back when most all long-distance phone calls sounded like this.
“My wife and my mother say you’ve been very adamant about getting in touch with me.”
The words crackle across the line in pieces, but I get the gist of it.
“That’s right. If you could call me as soon as you return home, I would appreciate it. I have a few questions I’d like to review with you in person. It’s very important.”
“That’s the reason I’m calling. I wanted to confirm that we will return on Sunday and the minute I’m back in Nashville, I will call. Is there anything I can do from here, Detective? I’m a little confused as to what this is about.”
It was good to hear such eagerness to cooperate with the police, though I’m not so sure he’ll still feel that way when he learns all the fuss is about Fanning.
“Your wife tells me you and your friends left Nashville on Saturday morning and arrived in Mexico City late Sunday evening. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. We spent Saturday night in Brownsville, Texas, at a Holiday Inn Express.”
“Your two friends were with you the whole time and can vouch for your itinerary?”
“Absolutely. This sounds serious, Detective. May I ask what this concerns?”
The static is back, so I wait it out, hoping the call won’t drop. “It’s about Carl Fanning, Mr. Sanchez.”
The long stretch of dead air that follows makes me worry that he’s severed the connection, then he says, “I see.” He hesitates before going on. “Has he taken another victim?”
That is a tough one to answer. At this point, we still can’t say one way or the other. “We’re not entirely sure, Mr. Sanchez. You see, he disappeared sometime between late Saturday and midday on Monday. It’s very important that we locate him.”
More of that tense hush lingers between us; the crackle of static pops again and again. Finally, he speaks. “If the world is lucky, he’s dead and buried somewhere.”
I can’t help wondering whether that somewhere is in Mexico.
