The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [87]
“All right, but you can’t let Cinda off the hook,” I said.
“I won’t let you down,” my daughter promised.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
A minute later, Jessie called me back with exact directions.
The property where Jed had his hideout was owned by an elderly couple named Dodd. The Dodds were snowbirds, and spent six months of the year living in south Florida, the other six in their native Montreal. Jessie said they were hard of hearing, and that Jed had come and gone for years without them knowing it.
I thanked my daughter and ended the call. The rain was coming down sideways, and I crossed the street to the house being occupied by the FBI. Before I could knock, Burrell came onto the porch.
“Come with me,” I said.
“I can’t. I’m helping the techs watch the monitors,” Burrell said.
“I know where Jed is hiding.”
“You do? Did you tell Whitley?”
I shook my head. “We’re going to do this my way.”
“You can’t act outside the law, Jack.”
“I’m not,” I said. “You’re going to help me.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Now get your gear.”
Burrell started to protest. I stepped off the porch and began walking down the sidewalk with my head bowed and my dog by my side.
Burrell caught up to me moments later. She had thrown on a bulletproof vest that was a size too big for her, and was cradling a shotgun between her arms.
“Slow down,” she said.
I slowed my pace. “You need to lose the shotgun.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because we’re going into a hole in the ground. You can’t turn around in a confined space with a shotgun. Sidearms only.”
Burrell’s jaw clenched, and I saw her blink.
“Anything else you’d like to share with me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “LeAnn told me when Heather left the house, she went to get something for Jed. I’m guessing it was food.”
“So?”
“Yesterday I spoke with the father of Mary McClary, one of the victims at the landfill. He told me his daughter was looking for work, and had worked as a waitress.”
“I’m still not reading you.”
We came to the corner and both stopped. I was going to make Burrell understand if it was the last thing I did, and I turned so I was facing her.
“Our killer works in a restaurant,” I said.
The Dodds lived in a tiny bungalow made of cinder blocks. The front yard was a jungle, the grass knee-high. I banged on the front door, and, when no one came out, checked the mailbox. It was filled with promotional flyers.
“Looks like they’re away,” I said.
I led Burrell to the back of the property. The lot was long and narrow, and had several ripening citrus trees. I picked up a stick and began poking at the soggy ground.
“What are we looking for?” Burrell asked.
“A septic tank,” I replied.
We searched the property. Several times, I saw Burrell drop to her knees and dig in the earth, only to turn up a water sprinkler, or something hidden in the dirt. Soon we were done.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Burrell asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Keep looking.”
There was an art to finding a concealed space, and even the best searchers missed things. I retraced my steps while tuning out the storm. Buster was lying beneath a lemon tree, and raised his head each time I passed him.
“Some help you are,” I said.
My dog let out a whine, and began to dig with his front paws. Etched in the dirt beneath the tree was the faint outline of a small door. I’d passed the spot several times, yet somehow missed it. Kneeling, I dug my fingers into the dirt, and the door came free.
“Over here,” I said.
Burrell came over, and stared into the hole with her flashlight. She pulled out her cell phone.
“I’m calling Whitley,” she announced.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he’s in charge.”
“Are you afraid of bringing Jed in yourself?”
“Of course not.”
“Then call Whitley when you’re done,” I said.
Burrell acted like I’d slapped her across the face.
“You’re out of line, Jack,” she said.
She started to make the call. I picked Buster up in my arms, and held him over the opening. The drop looked about five feet. I lowered him as far as I could without