Callahan And McLane: Targeted Part 32

35.

"Heidi Nickle," stated Zander. "Age fifty-six. Unmarried. Lives in unincorporated Washington County. I can't find any employment history on her in the last five years, but there are utility records in her name that go back twenty years."

Ava studied the woman's driver's license picture. "Her driver's license has been out of date for two years."

"I noticed that," said Zander.

"Then why do you like her?"

"Because I've got an old newspaper article that quotes her and her son as they enjoyed the Rose Festival twelve years ago." He clicked and pulled up the record.

Standing next to Ava, Nora leaned closer and read the account on the screen. "They refer to her son as a high school student," Nora said. "But they don't use his name. Why would they leave it out?"

"Either the reporter was lazy or he was asked not to use it," said Ava.

"I've got a Desiree Nickle in Clark County who's a year younger and lives a quarter mile from Vance Weldon's home," said Keith. "I don't know if she has kids."

c.r.a.p. "Those are both pretty good leads," said Ava. "But why can't we find Scott Nickle?"

"He may have changed his name. Or moved to another state." Nora rubbed her temples. "Is this a wild goose chase?"

"Anyone have any other leads to immediately follow?" asked Ava.

Silence.

"I think we need to go to both of these homes and talk to these women," said Nora, looking from Zander to Ava. "You two want to choose who goes where?"

"Washington County," said Ava immediately. She raised an eyebrow at Zander, who shrugged.

"I'll take the home near Vance Weldon's place," he replied.

"Go," ordered Nora. "I'm going to see what's taking so long on our boot print a.n.a.lysis. Keith, thank you for your help. You can head back to the lab now."

Ava grabbed her purse and followed Zander out of the building.

"Why'd you pick the first one?" Zander asked her.

"Because of the fact that she had a son."

Her phone vibrated in her bag. Disappointment struck as she saw Ray's name instead of Mason's on the screen. "Mason told Duff Morales that he was working on the Molalla River park case today," Ray said. "If he went to the state park, I know the cell service is spotty out there. That could be why he's not returning calls."

"But aren't you working that case together?" asked Ava. "Wouldn't he have told you?"

"Yeah, he would," Ray admitted. "Dammit. I don't know where he could be."

"I have to follow up on a lead. Can you check the park?" she asked. "And keep trying to reach him?"

"It's going to take me nearly an hour to get to the park at this time of day," Ray said. "I'll request a trooper to check the park and look for his vehicle. There's probably one within a few miles." He ended the call.

"No Mason?" Zander asked.

"I'm sure he's fine," said Ava. "Seeing his name along with Denny's and the other victims in those records made it hit too close to home for a few minutes."

"Don't get worked up until you know something's wrong. His phone could be in a dead spot or he's too tied up to answer."

"I'm trying to not think about it." She yanked open her car door.

"Hey," said Zander. "Relax. Mason can take care of himself."

I bet Denny Schefte felt the same about himself.

She smiled at Zander, pretending her gut wasn't full of acid, and told him good-bye. She started her car and carefully backed out of her s.p.a.ce.

His head hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h.

Mason moaned as he turned his face to the side, feeling the roughness of dirt and rocks against his cheek. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and the taste of iron and dust filled his mouth. He spit and it dribbled down the side of his face to the ground.

His hands were bound behind his back and his feet were tied together. He rolled onto his side and pulled his knees toward his stomach, trying not to scream in pain. It felt as if he'd been hit by a large truck.

Scott Heuser.

He killed Denny.

Scott had hit Mason in the head while he'd been incapacitated on the front porch. He faintly remembered the first two head blows. The third must have finally knocked him out. His stomach felt as if he'd been kicked a dozen times with pointy-toed cowboy boots. Nausea rocked through him and he closed his eyes, willing the contents of his stomach to stay in place. He breathed deep and fought to stay conscious as pain ripped through his left side and lungs.

Broken ribs.

Someone had continued to batter him after beating him unconscious. He hurt everywhere.

Why Scott?

The intricate mosaic of gla.s.s on the front door had triggered his memory. The home had belonged to one of the kids he'd been a.s.signed to mentor. He remembered the first time he'd knocked on the door.

The woman was stunning. Liquid brown eyes and a body to die for. She smiled and held eye contact for too long. Mason had to look away. "Are you Heidi Nickle? Scott's mom?"

"I am. Come in." She stepped back into the home, holding the door open wider, inviting him in with her body language and direct eye contact. Seduction oozed from her. It was in her gaze, her movements, and her smile. Her words dripped with innuendo.

s.h.i.t.

Mason removed his hat and stepped into her lair, hoping he was misinterpreting her stares. But he'd been a cop long enough to recognize when a woman had the hots for an officer. He was there to meet her son for the first time and figure out a schedule that'd work for both of them.

"Can I take your hat?" She said it as if she'd just rolled out of bed after a marathon s.e.xual encounter.

He dug his nails into the hat, not wanting to let it go. He already felt naked with his head uncovered. Handing it over would be losing the shield in front of his stomach.

He couldn't let it go. "No, thank you. I can't stay long. Is Scott around?"

Fire briefly flashed in her dark eyes.

This isn't going to work.

"He's in his room. I thought I should meet the man who's going to be helping my son. He misses his last mentor. I swear they never last long. Are you going to have staying power?" She slowly raised one sculpted eyebrow.

The double entendre slapped him in the face.

"I always fulfill my commitments. I'll be here for the full six months."

Her face lit up. "Good."

Steps sounded on the stairs to her right and Mason looked up to see her son studying him. Scott was fourteen. His hair was freshly combed, and his gaze was eager but nervous. He politely held out his hand to Mason, introducing himself.

Mason took his hand, impressed with the young man's confidence. Scott looked to his mother, seeking approval, and she gave it with a regal nod. The boy lifted his chin and brought his gaze back to Mason's. Heidi put her arm around her son's shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. Scott didn't push her away or look embarra.s.sed as most teens would.

"I'll get dinner started while the two of you talk," said Heidi. "I have some steaks and I'm going to make twice-baked potatoes. Mason, can you stay for dinner?"

His mouth watered. But his wife and four-year-old were waiting at home for him.

"I'm sorry, but my wife's already planned our dinner tonight."

Fire flashed in her eyes again, but it was immediately quenched by her smile. "Maybe next time."

"Maybe."

He turned to see disappointment in Scott's eyes. "You should stay for dinner," he stated, his expression serious.

"Sorry, Scott. Like I said, my wife already has things planned. This is my day off, so I try to be home in time to eat."

The boy simply blinked, holding Mason's gaze.

Mason knew he couldn't last six months.

Scott Heuser had been the boy. He'd changed his last name.

Mason took shallow breaths and opened his eyes. It was dark and he was in some sort of outdoor shed. He could faintly taste the fertilizer and old mechanical grease that hung heavily in the air. Two high, narrow windows showed him a dark sky and a far-off source of light.

He remembered he'd given a month of his time to the boy before asking to be rea.s.signed. Scott's mother had thrown herself at him every time he met with Scott.

Scott had grown up to become the director of Cops 4 Kidz. Mason had sat in a half-dozen board meetings with him and never recognized him as that fourteen-year-old. Now he saw the resemblance. He remembered the boy had been obsessively neat and driven about his schoolwork. Scott Heuser was still like that.

Did Scott murder Denny and the other men?

What'd gone wrong with him?

The faint laughter of children sounded off in the distance. The pumpkin farm.

He tried to yell and pain ripped through his neck and head. He'd been kicked in the throat, which had effectively destroyed 95 percent of any sound he could make.

But I'm still alive.

How long had Scott kept the other victims alive?

Blackness started at the back of his brain and slowly crept forward; he fought to stay conscious but it rushed through him like a tsunami, and he was swallowed by its depths.

36.

Scott darted between the rows of corn, ignoring the strong odor of gasoline.

He knew the layout of the farm next door like the back of his hand. He'd explored the property since he was in grade school. His farm was three boring flat acres, but the farm next door was huge, with a large grove of firs and acres and acres of different crops. A river cut through the southwest corner. It'd been heaven for a boy with a wild imagination.

He'd spend entire days during the summer climbing the trees, spying on the workers, and hiding in the barns. Occasionally he'd find a small treasure . . . a tool left behind . . . a dropped thermos . . . a sharp knife.

His collection of weapons had started with the discovery of a simple pocketknife. A rich prize for a ten-year-old boy. He'd carried it with him everywhere, showing it off to the other boys at school. At night he'd hide it, worried the owners would come knocking on his mother's front door, demanding that he return what he'd stolen.

Finders keepers.

No one ever came.

He continued to comb the farm, searching for more treasures. He didn't notice when the crops started to take up less and less s.p.a.ce. His mother mentioned that their neighbors were struggling to make a living off the farm, that times were hard. He knew he and she were poor, but he'd always considered the farmers next door to be wealthy. Surely someone who had all that land and a half-dozen huge tractors must be rich?

Eventually the neighbors opened the farm store, putting a big sign out at the road and selling local produce to pa.s.sersby. Then they added pumpkins at Halloween and trees at Christmas. More people stopped as they expanded their seasonal entertainments for children.

Scott had been in high school when they started the Halloween haunted forest. The first year he'd stayed at the periphery, watching as actors lurched out of the woods to scare the customers. Soon he joined, buying his own fake blood and costume pieces, and blended in with the staff. They never questioned his presence, in fact they often complimented his makeup.

Hiding and scaring the c.r.a.p out of families was a mind-blowing rush.

The productions got bigger and better. Corpses hanging from trees, dead bodies in shallow graves, an insane asylum in the north barn. Scott loved it. Every year he watched and spied as his neighbors prepared for that season's scary scenes.

He dreamed of doing more.

Real blood. Real bodies. Shocking the spectators.

His anger had been fueled by the men who used his mother and left her crushed. Mason Callahan had been typical. His mother told him how he'd call her or take her out to lunch while he was at school. Mason swore he'd leave his wife and son and make their family his new one. His mother had been over the moon with antic.i.p.ation.