Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 20

"Are you really a cop? 'Cause you don't seem to know s.h.i.t."

Mason smiled, showing all his teeth. "I'm all cop. Now pretend I'm your best friend and tell me everything you know about Hinkes."

Fielding shifted on the metal stool, his black brows coming together. "f.u.c.ker fell off the face of the earth. He went to Shutter Creek for his time."

"In Eastern Oregon?" Mason had never been to the medium-security prison.

"Yeah. I'd get a letter now and then. Then mine started coming back to me. I tried to find out if he'd been released or transferred. He was only supposed to be in for nine months, I think."

"That's it? Accessory to murder and he got nine months?"

"Naw, it was for breaking probation and something else. I don't remember. I've searched for him online but can't figure out where he went."

"Online?" These guys get Internet access? "I bet you were looking at dating sites, right?"

Fielding didn't even blink. He kept rambling, his eyes focused on a spot on the table as he thought about Hinkes. "He's probably dead somewhere or locked up somewhere else. He couldn't keep his hands to himself."

"What does that mean?"

Now Fielding looked up. And grinned. "He liked it. He liked getting it from anyone. The rougher, the better. A lotta pain involved, all the better. Men, women, didn't matter."

Mason froze. Every neuron in his brain firing at once. Bingo.

"Where is Hinkes?" This is our guy.

"I just told you that I don't know. I've looked. Nothing else to do in here. I figure he served his sentence and got out. Who knows what the f.u.c.k he's up to, but a.s.ses like that don't change. It's in his blood. I've never seen anyone who likes the pain along with the s.e.x so much."

"f.u.c.king pervert."

Fielding just nodded. "Gary fit most pervert descriptions."

"What'd he look like?"

"Gary? Oh, he was a freak. One of those white-skinned guys. You know, the genetic s.h.i.t? Albinos? But he dyed his hair. Used the cheap c.r.a.p...it always looked like s.h.i.t. He wanted colored contacts but couldn't afford them. Had some pretty amazing tattoo work done. Don't know how he paid for that...I can guess, though. His back looked like a piece of oriental artwork. f.u.c.king amazing."

Blood was pounding in Mason's head. He strained to hear past the noise. "Did he have tattoos on his wrists?"

"No, his upper arms were tattooed. Not his wrists. That could have changed. He had a serious addiction to tattooing. Loved them. I never understood. That s.h.i.t f.u.c.king hurts." Fielding pulled up his sleeve to show a small phoenix on his upper arm. "I did one. That was enough."

Mason stared at the small figure. "Why a phoenix?"

Fielding looked away and pulled down the sleeve, rubbing at the fabric over the tattoo like he could wash it off. "Stands for new beginnings. Change."

Mason snorted. "Maybe someday, eh?"

"How can he just vanish?" Mason asked. He was seriously frustrated. His best lead, the name from Lee Fielding, was. .h.i.tting a stone wall. After his prison interview, Mason had called Ray, pointed him in the direction of searching for Gary Hinkes, and sped back to the office, hoping Ray would have fantastic news by the time he'd arrived.

Ray shook his head. "It's crazy. I went to records to pull the file. Everything is still on paper from back then. The whole file on Hinkes is missing. The only info I can get is from Fielding's file. And I swear, there's s.h.i.t missing from there."

"There's no record of Hinkes's arrest and sentencing?" Mason didn't like this one bit.

"There is. I can find that he was arrested. I can find that he was sent to Shutter Creek. But that is it. Everything else is flat gone."

"What about previous arrests? Fielding said he'd broken probation, so there has to be something previous."

"Nothing."

"What? How can that be?" Mason tapped his desk with a pencil and then spun it in his fingers, mind churning. Noting the slightly blunted tip, he thrust the pencil into the electric sharpener and let the noise clear his brain. He added the pencil to the other perfectly sharpened dozen pencils in a mug on his desk.

"What about pictures? There's got to be at least one photo of the guy somewhere. One we can show to Jamie Jacobs."

"Nothing," Ray stated again. The cuffs of his white dress shirt had been sloppily rolled up to his elbows, and the lines between his brows hadn't left his face since Mason had walked into the office.

Mason stared at Ray's cuffs and noted the tie askew. Ray was feeling the pressure, too. The man was usually the picture of beefy male elegance. Unlike Mason, who strove for matching socks inside his cowboy boots.

"We're close here. What's bugging you? Spit it out."

"How can all this information be missing?" Ray asked. He looked over his computer monitor at Mason. "It's just Hinkes's info that I can't find. There's plenty on Fielding. I can tell you exactly what he's been doing since his arrest, what he eats for dinner, and when he takes a s.h.i.t, but everything on Hinkes is gone."

A small buzzing started at the base of Mason's skull. "What are you saying?"

"Someone made all this info go away. I can find a half dozen pictures of Fielding. Why can't I find any of Hinkes?"

"Did you check newspaper archives? Maybe his face ended up there."

Ray nodded. "Most papers have their archives accessible online. Nothing is coming up. Same with driver's licenses. No photo available."

"That's f.u.c.ked up." The buzzing was getting louder.

"Agreed."

Michael was pumped. He fought to hold in his excitement. Lusco and Callahan had figured out that Jamie's attacker was albino. And that the kidnapped children were probably held by a person with the same coloring. How many albinos could be wandering around Oregon? Or with blood on their hands in Eastern Oregon? He was about to do a Google search to find albino numbers compared to the rest of the population. Either way, the window was narrowing on their suspect.

He shared the info with Hove and Sheriff Spencer.

"White skin? Don't they have red eyes?" asked Spencer. His expression was perplexed.

"Sounds like he wears contacts." Michael bit his lip to keep from laughing. Spencer looked like he was thinking about a zombie wandering around his county.

"The tattoos are probably the more noticeable flag," said Hove. "He can cover up his hair and eye color, but he's gonna be wearing long sleeves in this heat unless he wants everyone to perfectly remember the man with the colored arms."

"No luck on Chris's truck?" Jamie spoke up. She'd been listening intently to the men speak, but Michael noticed her body language stiffen when Hove started talking about the tattoos. No doubt the images were still sharp in her mind.

Spencer shook his head. "I put out a description and the license plate. Frankly, there just isn't a lot of law enforcement patrolling the roads on this side of the state. But the traffic's lighter too. We'll find him."

Two of the state's crime scene investigators continually pa.s.sed the group, going back and forth between the bakery and their Suburban. Hove had called in the state's team to take evidence at Spencer's request. Spencer's tiny evidence kit was in a fishing tackle box in his trunk, consisting of fingerprint powder, lift cards, evidence collection envelopes, a special light, and ancient gloves. For this murder and its connections to the large number of murders on the west side of the state, no one wanted to miss anything.

"Chris'll turn up," Michael stated. He pulled Jamie against him and rubbed her back. He knew she was thinking of Brian, too. It wasn't just about Chris. Jamie was pa.s.sionate about protecting children and especially this nephew she'd never met. She knew the boy was out of her reach and incredibly close to danger.

"Can we go back home now?" she asked into Michael's chest. "They don't need us here, do they? And Chris has clearly left. Maybe he's going to Portland. I'm worried about him."

Michael looked to Spencer and Hove. The two cops exchanged a glance.

"Yeah, I don't see any need for you two to stick around," answered Hove. "We'll call if we have more questions."

Spencer's cell phone buzzed, and he left the circle to answer.

"What about the baker's family?" asked Jamie, before she turned around and wiped at her eyes. Even in the supreme heat, the sudden absence of her head left a cold spot on Michael's chest. He hadn't seen tears, but her eyes were definitely red. "Has someone notified his relatives?"

"We haven't found any family yet," Hove replied with a swipe at the sweat on his forehead. "Spencer has someone looking into it, but they're coming up empty so far."

"Say what?" Spencer exclaimed into his cell, pulling the attention of the group. He turned to make eye contact with Hove but kept listening on the phone. "Where'd they find him?"

Spencer clenched his jaw, and his chest expanded. Michael saw his hand tighten around the cell. Every cop in the area perked up as if a strong scent had entered the air. Michael felt the hair rise on his arms. Jamie's hand gripped his arm, and he stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, feeling her tremble, her breathing escalating.

Chris?

Spencer shoved his phone in a pocket. "A kid's been killed. His mom found him in their garage a few minutes ago. Looks like he was shot."

"A kid?" Jamie gasped. Michael held on tighter to her shoulders.

"A teenager. Ethan Buell."

Michael felt Jamie deflate. Thank G.o.d. But that poor mother.

"Ethan works at the gas station. He was on duty yesterday when you two got to town." Spencer gave Michael a hard look.

"We didn't fill up here," Michael said. What was Spencer getting at? Was he implying- "Ethan's a good kid. Friendly and outgoing. Has a tendency to talk a lot."

Something clicked in Michael's brain. "You think he got a good look at our suspect? Maybe asked him too many questions?"

"I've got two dead people in twenty-four hours in a town where no one has been murdered in almost a decade. Do I think there's a connection? You bet your a.s.s I do. Now I'm changing my mind on you two leaving town today. Plan to stick around a bit." Spencer looked at Hove, who was dialing his phone. "Looks like we've got a murder weapon left at the Buell scene. A Ruger revolver. d.a.m.n thing's like twelve inches long." He paused and looked at Michael and Jamie.

"Don't look at me, I don't like revolvers," Michael muttered.

"No, my officer on the scene is saying it looks like one that Chris Jacobs has used for practice on the firing range."

"That's bulls.h.i.t!" Jamie yanked out of Michael's grasp and stepped forward. "You can't say it looks like someone's gun. This is Hicksville out here. Everyone owns a gun or five. Don't even think about Chris for that boy's death without better evidence."

"I didn't say that." Spencer stepped back, startled by Jamie's vehemence.

"You just did!"

Michael kept his mouth shut. Spencer had just stuck his foot in his own mouth, and Jamie was efficiently taking him to town for it.

"If he was working at the gas station, shouldn't there be video from yesterday? Can't you see who he talked with? Maybe even see license plates?"

Spencer cleared his throat. "Like you said, ma'am. This is Hicksville. And I doubt Jim Graham ever put video surveillance up at his gas station. But I will definitely find out."

Jamie stepped back. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I didn't mean to yell. I'm a bit protective when it comes to my brother, and I'm tired and-"

"It's been a long morning," added Michael.

"G.o.d, yes," sighed Jamie.

Sheriff Spencer touched the brim of his hat at Jamie. "Not a problem. I need to get over to the Buell home. Sergeant? Can I get another evidence team? Or should I just wait on these guys?"

Hove headed into the bakery. "I'll see how things are coming here and let you know," he said over his shoulder.

Spencer touched his hat again and left. Jamie leaned against Michael. She was worn out. He was worn out. It was d.a.m.ned hot, dry, and dusty, and all he wanted to do was crawl into a cool bed with Jamie and hold her.

"Hungry, princess?"

Jamie shook her head. "I can't believe that boy was killed. When he first said a kid, I thought-"

"I thought the same thing. I thought for sure it was Brian. Although, before he got off the phone, I thought they'd found Chris. And not found him in a good way."

"He's still alive. I can feel it," said Jamie. "That man hasn't gotten to him yet. Do you think that boy saw the tattooed man at the gas station? And told him how to find Chris?"

"I don't know. Somehow Tattoo found Chris before us. He might have followed us from Portland, but we didn't lead him directly to Chris. I have to think he asked somebody."

"We have to find him first. Where do we start?"

"That's the magic question."

"I'm ready to go back to the hotel. Actually, I'm ready to go home and see if Chris has turned up there, but-"

"Hey, Brody." Hove stepped out of the bakery. He had on purple nitrile gloves and held a few papers in his hands. "Can you two look at these real quick?"

Hove held a child's drawings. Without touching them, Michael and Jamie studied the crayon pictures as Hove shuffled through them. There were pictures of animals, not certain what types of animals, but Michael guessed dogs by the ears and tails. A picture of Chris's home, obvious by the tan paint and tall fir trees. Another picture was a man, woman, and boy all holding hands. The woman had wings.

"Oh," gasped Jamie. "It's his mother. Chris must tell him she's an angel. How lovely." Her voice cracked.

Hove flipped over the family drawing. On the back, in faint pencil, was another drawing. But it was a quick sketch by an adult. A woman's face. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

Jamie sucked in her breath. "Elena."

Michael's chest tightened. Chris had sketched the boy's mother for him. The lines were sure and true and smooth. A drawing that had probably been done many times in the past. It conveyed a gentle personality, a calmness in the woman's eyes. Chris had talent or else he'd drawn the same sketch a million times and could do it perfectly. Michael figured it was both.

"Turn them all over," Jamie begged. Michael knew she was hoping for a sketch of Brian or perhaps Chris. The back sides of the papers were blank. Disappointment rippled across Jamie's face.

"I want them," Jamie said. "When you're done with them, I want them."

Hove nodded. "I'll make sure you get them."

Chris continued to dial Jamie's phone numbers every hour. Her cell wouldn't even ring. It kept going straight to voice mail, which told him her phone was dead, off, or out of range. Scenarios kept dancing through his head, and none of them were pleasant. Several times, he'd pushed his old truck past the speed limit on his return toward Portland but then brought it back down. The last thing he needed was a ticket. He was a firm believer in staying off of the radar. Everyone's radar.

But how had the Ghostman found him?