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“You’re here for Callum? Why? What did he do?”
“I’m afraid I can only discuss that with Mr. Jennings,” Faith said. “Is he your son?”
The older man wheezed laughter and opened the door wider, revealing a wrinkled, potbellied body and a long, gray beard. He wore a white wifebeater that was stained with what Faith hoped was coffee and grease and his beard and moustache were flecked with spittle. A sour odor of sweat and alcohol emanated from him, and Faith’s nostrils flared.
“Callum’s my tenant. He’s renting my storm shelter.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “And that’s perfectly legal. Constitution says I have a right to do what I want with my own property.”
The Constitution did not say that, but Faith wasn’t here to prosecute zoning laws. She was far more interested in the fact that Mr. Jennings rented a storm shelter. “May we speak with Mr. Jennings?”
The older man shifted his gaze between the two agents. “I ain’t responsible for what he done,” he said. “He lives here, but we ain’t friends. I don’t know what he gets up to.”
“We’re not here for you, sir,” Faith assured him. “We have a confidential matter that we need to discuss with Mr. Jennings. Is he available?”
“Well, he’s out back, but I can’t tell you if he’ll see you or not. Willingly, anyway.”
“Can you take us to where he is?” Michael asked patiently.
“Sure,” the old man said. He looked down at Turk and said, “That dog don’t bite, does he?”
“Not unless he has to,” Faith replied.
The old man nodded. "Had a Rottweiler once. Sweetest dog in the world if you were me. Didn't like anyone else, though. He ended up biting a neighbor kid real bad when he came over the fence trying to get his football back. Had to put him down. My name's Roger, by the way. People call me Jolly Roger."
He grinned, and Faith had to admit that with his crazy beard and missing teeth, he looked an awful lot like a pirate. “It’s a pleasure to admit you, Roger,” she said. “I’m Special Agent Faith Bold. The dog is our K9 unit, Turk, and just behind him is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince.”
“Pleasure,” Roger said. “All right, come on in. I’ll take you out back.”
He led the agents through the house. Turk snorted and shook his head, but Faith wasn’t sure if that was because he couldn’t smell the odor of whiskey and stale cigarettes or because he could.
“You can't tell me what he done, can you?” Roger asked.
“This is a private matter with Mr. Jennings,” Faith confirmed.
He nodded. “All right. Hope it’s nothin’ too bad. Heard of a guy a while back who would lure women out to his car then knock ‘em out and take ‘em somewhere to torture ‘em to death. Crazy feller. Bundy, I think his name was."
Faith and Michael shared a look but chose not to comment. Roger led them to a half-acre yard that sported patches of uneven grass and a few maples whose spreading branches indicated that pruning was not an activity Jolly Roger saw as necessary.
In the shadow of one of these maples was the shelter entrance, a rusted corrugated steel box with an even more rusted door. Faith couldn’t imagine any storm that wouldn’t easily destroy this entrance, but she supposed it worked well enough for Callum’s purposes.
“Thank you, Roger,” Faith said. “We’ll take it from here.” When the older man didn’t leave, Faith added, “you should go inside now.”
Roger, clearly disappointed, muttered. “Oh, all right. Y’all holler if you need anything.”
Faith watched until he stepped into the house and reluctantly closed his back door. Then the three of them approached the shelter.
Faith pressed the doorbell and waited.
“Coming!” a youthful voice called from downstairs.
She heard heavy footsteps, and a moment later, the door opened. A young man—very young, probably not even twenty-five—with a crop of messy blonde hair and a thick-boned but soft pudgy build stared in wide-eyed shock at the two agents.
“Callum Jennings?” Faith asked.
“You guys are FBI?” he said. “Why are you here? I’m not a hacker or anything.”
“But youareCallum Jennings?” Faith pressed.
“Yeah.”
