Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [74]
“Wow. How did he get all that information?”
“That's what I need to find out.”
“Think he was stalking them?”
“Could be.”
“Did you check beneath the bed?”
“Not yet.”
Kneeling, Sally stuck her hands beneath the bed and pulled out a cracked leather satchel. I knelt down beside her, and our heads nearly knocked. She opened the satchel and dumped its contents onto the bed. It contained a thin Dell notebook computer, a portable HP printer, and four grainy eight-by-ten photographs.
“Aren't you glad I talked you into this?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
Sally spread the photographs on the bed. The first three showed Tram Dockery behind the wheel of his pickup truck with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee in his lap. There was a baby seat in back, and Shannon was strapped in. Tram had told me he'd gotten drunk that morning, but he'd never mentioned his daughter was with him. The fourth photograph showed the rear of the pickup, the license plate plainly visible.
“Cecil must have snapped these pictures,” Sally said.
I stared at the six-pack in the photo. There were five unopened cans in the pack. Tram wasn't drunk when the photographs were taken.
“Tram would have seen him,” I said.
“Maybe Cecil used a telescopic lens.”
I took one of the photographs off the bed and held it up to the light. It was printed on cheap paper, and I shook my head.
“Cecil didn't take these photographs. He printed them off his computer.”
We both studied the photographs some more.
“You think someone e-mailed the photos to him on his computer?” Sally asked.
I nodded.
“What about the information on the pad? Did someone send him that as well?”
I nodded again.
“So there's a third person involved?”
I thought back to the photograph of Simon Skell's gang I'd seen at the Fox TV station. Skell was the mastermind, Bash the front man, the Hispanic the abductor, and the blond-haired mystery man the information-gatherer. If this was indeed an organized gang of abductors working together, then the mystery man was doing more than just gathering information. He was also forming profiles of victims for his gang, and possibly other gangs as well.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you think he's driving around and randomly photographing people?”
I studied the pad with the notations. “That wouldn't explain how's he getting the rest of the information.”
“I don't know, Jack. I'm just stabbing in the dark.”
I picked up the other three photographs from the bed. “I need to show these to Tram Dockery. He'll know where they were taken.”
Sally snatched the photographs out of my hand.
“No, you don't,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You're not taking the photographs to show Tram.”
“Then just give me one. That's all I'll need to jar his memory.”
“God damn it, Jack, you promised me.”
I looked into her eyes. I had crossed over the fragile line of our friendship.
“Give me one, and tell the police you found three photographs in the satchel,” I said. “What harm will that do?”
“They're evidence.”
“I need to show one of the photographs to Tram. Come on, Sally, don't you want me to crack this thing?”
“You promised me. Isn't your word worth anything, Jack?”
I blew out my cheeks. A little voice inside my head was telling me to snatch one of the photographs out of Sally's hand and run for the door. Even if Sally caught up to me, she wasn't strong enough to make me give it back.
Only another little voice—perhaps my conscience—was telling me not to think these dangerous thoughts. Sally was my friend and confidante, and I'd given her my word. Once upon a time, my word had actually meant something.
So what had happened? I guess I'd changed. Now I was willing to make promises that I didn't intend to keep, and do things I've never done before. I'd been pulled to the dark side. Yet, I didn't know what else to do.
“Think about it,” I heard myself say. “Shannon Dockery was the perfect victim for an abduction.