Page 94 of Fallen Creed

Maggie sat quietly until they finished, guessing this wasn’t the first time they’d discussed the matter.

“Where did you find it?” Jason asked.

“In a pasture. It was in a black plastic garbage bag tossed on top of the snow.”

“Why would Ryder do that?” Brodie asked, then seconds later, her eyes blinked wide. “Oh, right. You said someone took it from him.”

“His shirt was in the bag, too.” She paused, hating to deliver the next piece of information. “There was a bloodstain on the shirt.”

She searched their faces and waited. Jason looked like he expected something like this. Brodie just stared somewhere over Maggie’s shoulder.

“There was nothing else in the bag?” Jason asked.

“No.” She couldn’t tell them about the sock without getting into Kristen Darrow and didn’t want to do that right now.

“If they thought law enforcement was tracking the phone,” Jason said, “which you were, it would make sense to ditch it, right?”

“I believe so. They pulled the battery out.”

“Wait a minute,” Jason's eyes lit up. “Do you know if Ryder had Grace’s vest on her?”

“I didn’t see them leave,” Maggie said. The regret surprised her with yet another sinking feeling in her gut. “I know she had it on the day before when they did the electronic device search.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this. Sometimes Ryder puts a tracking device in Grace’s vest pocket in case they get separated. It might not be easy to track if there’s no cell service, but it could be worth a try.”

Maggie was already sliding out of the booth and pulling out her cell phone to call Alonzo. “I’m going to check on that. I’ll be right back.” She headed for the hotel lobby, where she knew she could get a better cell phone connection.

On the way out, she glanced at one of the televisions hung strategically throughout the pub for sports fans. It wasn’t a game that caught her eye, but a red banner with LOCAL BREAKING NEWS. She recognized the enhanced screen shot from the surveillance video. The audio was turned down, but the captions gave a phone number to call with information. Right now they were labeling the three suspects, “persons of interest.” Despite the latest and best technology, the zoomed screen-grabs were grainy. Still, maybe someone would recognize one of the women.

Maggie was impressed. Alonzo was fast. Pakula must have used every bit of his authority and persuasive talents with the local media.

With any luck, someone would recognize one of the trio.

Now, if Grace had a tracking device, Alonzo could locate it.

This was all good. So why did that lump in the pit of her stomach continue to linger? She could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat pounding in her chest, drumming at her temple, like a ticking bomb telling her there wasn’t much time left.

This was the part when she hated everything she knew. She hated how much experience she had delving into the minds of killers. What they were capable of doing. They had no limits. Felt no remorse.

Her mind was trained to play out their sick games. Anticipate, predict and maybe, if she was lucky, trick them. Once or twice she’d won, but how many times had she lost? And at what cost? Those losses had stripped her of feelings, shredded her beliefs in a greater power who should be able to contain such evil. She’d learned enough lessons to last her a lifetime.

But this time was different. This time wasn’t some game. It wasn’t about saving the next victim. It was Ryder and Grace. She could not lose him. Not now.

Over the past twenty-four hours she caught herself running a mantra in her head, a thrum of beats and words—okay, maybe it was even a prayer—hoping that Ryder and Grace were okay. That they were still alive.

She told herself it was a good thing that Alonzo and Pakula had acted quickly. And at the same time, she couldn’t stop wondering if these three killers had indeed taken Ryder and Grace, what would they do when they saw this breaking news?

The lump in her stomach didn’t just linger. Now it churned and started to twist into knots.

—73—

Friday, October 8

Hastings, Nebraska

Ruben didn’t sleep. He didn’t need much. Three or four hours max. It was something that happened in his forties. As if an electrical switch had been flipped inside his mind. He used the dark hours to feed his imagination.

Even as a teenager, his imagination tilted to the wild side. While other boys his age dreamed of sexual conquests, Ruben was more fascinated with how to make girls scream. Yes, pleasure could sometimes accomplish that, but Ruben found fear a more satisfying medium.