Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [140]
“What if we’re wrong?” Diesel asked, Krieger still in his arms.
“We’d better pray we’re not,” Lee answered as the three of them hurried out toward the car. Mr. McNamara followed close behind, braying like a mournful donkey. Lee was getting used to his vocalizations, and understood this was his way of saying Don’t leave me.
“Don’t worry, Mr. McNamara,” he called over his shoulder. “Someone is on their way to take care of you.”
The Social Services ambulance was waiting outside, and they handed Krieger over to them to be whisked away, protesting, along with Mr. McNamara. Ignoring the stares of the social workers, they climbed into the old Ford and headed west on County Road 604. The car rattled through the old covered bridge that used to enchant Laura as a child—she always dreamed of living in the little green cottage next to it and being, as she called it, The Bridge Keeper. Lee would tease her, saying that a covered bridge didn’t need a keeper, but she always insisted that it did, and that would be her job.
When they reached the Delaware they took the River Road north, following the river until County 519 cut away from the shoreline. They took that all the way into Sussex
County, at which time Lee unfolded the state map and studied it carefully. The entire western section of the county was a great swath of parkland known as Stokes State Forest. Right in the middle of it was Wallpack Center—and just below it, Buttermilk Falls.
“Okay,” he said, “got it. Just follow Wallpack Road.”
The forest was dotted with lakes and creeks connecting them, and in the middle, where three streams met, was the Falls.
“Okay,” Lee said as they traveled north on Route 206. “Any minute now—there! Turn left on Struble Road.”
They did, following that to an intersection with a cemetery, where they turned left again. If Butts and Diesel thought the cemetery was a bad omen, they didn’t say anything. The trailhead was just up the road on their left. Parked in the lot across the road was a black limousine with a New Jersey license plate.
“Looks like we were right,” Butts said as he swung the big Ford in next to it. He drew his revolver before cautiously opening his driver’s side door, but there didn’t appear to be anyone in the limo. They all got out of the car and tried looking in, but the windows, were heavily tinted, and they couldn’t see anything.
“I’m gonna call it in to the local cops,” Butts said, taking out his cell phone. “Shit,” he said, after stabbing at the buttons for a minute. “No damn signal.”
“Should we break in?” Diesel asked.
“As an officer of the law, I wouldn’t do something like that without a search warrant,” Butts remarked, “but if a private citizen were to do that while I wasn’t looking, I would have no way of stopping him.”
He proceeded to stare off toward the woods. Diesel whipped a long thin wire out of his pocket, inserted it into the passenger side keyhole, and within seconds, had the door open, leaving no scratch marks.
“Jesus,” Butts said with undisguised admiration. “How did you do that?”
“Practice,” Diesel said, peering into the front of the van.
There was nothing especially remarkable about the car. Other than the gray tinted windows, which were rather sinister, it appeared to be an ordinary limousine, much like any other. The interior was clean and swept, devoid of clutter. There were two paper Oren’s coffee cups in the holder up front, and a couple of granola bars on the passenger side seat. In the back, a khaki sleeping bag was laid out on the seat.
“So that’s probably where he kept her,” Butts remarked, looking at it. He was very careful not to touch anything, maybe so he could deny having participated in the break-in if it ever came up in court. Cops had to be very careful about these things—without probable cause, a search like this could completely sabotage a case once it came to trial. Lee had seen it happen on more than one occasion, and figured Butts had seen it even more.
Diesel wasn’t so delicate—he climbed inside the limo and sniffed around a bit.
“Don’t touch anything,