AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Won’t matter. They’ll camp out at the dealership.” He closed his eyes. Thought of the unending days of being pursued. Why had he ever thought he should come back here? To be closer to a mother who was now married to a pious, self-serving prick?
But she’s the only one who believes in you. The cops don’t trust you, the press has already tried, convicted, tarred and feathered you. Even this attorney on the other end of the phone call is just using you. For publicity. To parade you out to the public, to grandstand. For his own purposes.
Fleetingly he thought of Ashley. How completely he’d loved her. Trusted her. Had faith in her.
And she had dropped him to marry some rich dude she’d met in college. He’d half expected it, of course. It wasn’t as if she was all that true to him. She’d dated a ton of guys in high school, but he’d thought, no, probably fantasized that she’d see that he was a true heart and they’d end up together.
Happily ever after.
“Fuckin’ moron,” he said aloud.
“What?” Wells asked.
Oh, shit. He’d done it again. Lost track of where he was. “Sorry. Someone almost backed into me.”
“So take my advice. Take a few days off work. Hole up in a hotel. Go to Atlanta. Get lost. Clear your head.”
“That takes money.”
“I’ll advance it to you.”
“It also takes a pretty damned understanding boss.” He thought of Marv Thompson, the bulky ex special ops guy he worked for, a muscular black dude with a shaved head and thick moustache. Big and smart. Suffered no fools. Herb might understand, then again he might not, and the owner of the dealership wasn’t quite so lenient.
“Just hang tough,” Wells was saying, but Owen wasn’t listening as he saw the news van pull into the lot. Of all the dumbass luck! What were the chances? He slammed his hat lower on his head, made sure his wraparound sunglasses covered as much of his face as possible.
He would back out and ease into traffic because he was pretty damned sure the press had the make and model of his truck along with the license plate.
It would never end.
Hang tough, Wells had said. Oh, yeah, sure. That would solve the problem.
His cell phone buzzed and he checked the text:
Murderer.
You’re going to fry.
His stomach knotted. He’d already deleted his social media accounts, but somehow they’d found him, gotten his cell phone number.
He swallowed hard and shoved the gearshift into reverse.
The voice in his head that had gotten louder by the day reminded him that all the “hanging tough” in the world wouldn’t be enough.
They’re gonna find you.
They’re gonna hunt you down like a pack of wolves on a wounded stag and then, no matter what you do, they’re gonna pounce.
Face it, Duval. You’re doomed.
* * *
“I’m guessing preteen, maybe eleven or twelve,” the assistant medical examiner told Reed and Delacroix hours after the bones had been discovered by Mentos.
They were standing in the morgue, looking at the remains of the body discovered at Black Bear Lake, the sterile room with its gleaming saws and knives and hanging scales surrounding them. On the metal table, the skeleton was incomplete, but the bones were laid out meticulously as Dr. Hancott studied them.
“But this,” he was saying, indicating the partial skeleton lying upon the table, “is definitely not the remains of a five-year-old girl.” A rotund man, with a fringe of hair around a tanned, freckled pate, he looked over the tops of a pair of half-glasses perched upon a short nose. “The teeth are the first clue,” he admitted, examining the jaw. “Bicuspids and second molars have erupted, which, of course, wouldn’t show in a five-year-old. And then there’s the measurements to the skull and sole femur that was found at the scene, which suggest a prepubescent youth. If I were a betting man, and I’m not, mind you, I would guess a male due to the narrow hips, though that’s not assured. At least at this point. We’ll send out DNA samples and check dental records against any missing children.”
“Do that and keep us posted,” Reed said as he and Delacroix left the building, feeling the warmth of the Georgia sun as they stepped outside. Though the body didn’t belong to Rose Duval, it would prove to be the son or daughter of some other set of parents who were still holding out a thread of hope that their child would return unharmed.
