Ninety-Four
Erie County, New York
“...subject tracking at Clinton and Four Rod Road...”
Nate Wiley’s police scanner crackled with an update.
“That’s due south,” Nate said, signaling to turn at the next major intersection.
“And far ahead of us,” Greg said.
Nate’s walkie-talkie came to life.
“Doug Tucker, Trailside watch captain. I’m heading south on the Amber, who else we got out there? Over.”
Nate picked up his radio, keyed his microphone.
“Doug, this is Nate Wiley. I got Greg Griffin with me. We’re moving south. Over.”
“Thanks, Nate,” Tucker said. “Anyone else? Watch captains only, to keep chatter to minimum, please. Over.”
Nate’s walkie-talkie hissed.
“Jensen from Noble Haven. Our team is rolling. Over.”
Seconds passed.
“Zelinski, Cardinal Hill. We’ve got eyes out there, too. Right behind you, Doug. Over.”
A long moment of static silence passed.
“Roger that,” Tucker said. “Thanks. Got more people coming. Stay sharp out there. Over.”
Greg’s phone vibrated with a text from Kozak.
We’re putting up ECSO helo. Keep the faith, Greg.
Absorbing Kozak’s message gave Greg some assurance, knowing several police agencies and volunteers had assembled an army.
But the van was miles ahead.
It could disappear anywhere.
Anything could happen.
* * *
Among the neighborhood watch volunteers monitoring his walkie-talkie and police scanner was Bert Cobb.
The watch captain was right, Cobb thought as he drove.
Got to keep alert; the situation has changed dramatically.
Cobb had seen it all building on the news: Jennifer wrongly identified as dead, later a suspect was arrested, a crime scene in Pennsylvania, and now this: Jake was missing.
And police are tying it to Jennifer’s disappearance.
Listening to dispatches and transmissions on his police scanner and walkie-talkie, Cobb adjusted his grip on his steering wheel, thinking of events unfolding and the agony.
It’s been going on for so long. It’s been so hard. Everyone’s been through so much. I know their pain. I lost my sister.
Listening to his radios as he drove, Cobb searched hard.
Sounds like they’re getting closer.
Ninety-Five
Erie County, New York
Wincing with each step, Jenn shambled over the deep grooves in the dirt road, the tall grass brushing her legs as she moved through the orchard.
Fearing her captor was behind her, she cast a glance back to the buildings. Then she looked down the lane winding through the dead trees for the way out.
No signs of life anywhere but for the birdsong and occasional breezes hissing over the acreage. Stumbling, she stifled a sob, got up, wiped her raw, bloodied hands on her shirt, and kept moving.
Nearing the property’s entrance gate at the end of the lane, her heart lifted to the hum of tires on asphalt. A car approached. She saw it, knowing it could be her captor. Her heart pounding, she whispered a prayer, took a risk and waved from behind the gate.
“Hey! Help! Hey!”
It sailed by, disappearing down the long narrow country road, taking her hope of rescue with it.
She clenched her eyes.
Don’t give up. Keep going.
Steeling herself, she opened her eyes. The rusted gate was secured with a chain and lock. Gritting through her pain, she gripped the metal frame, climbed, and hefted herself over it, staring at the No Trespassing sign. The chain and lock were new.
She looked in both directions.
Where am I?
The road was lined with stands of trees, scrub, and stretches of cleared farmland.
No traffic.
No buildings.
No mailboxes.
Nobody.
Which way to go?
The car had vanished to her left.
Go left.
Dragonflies whirled over the tall grass as she walked along the side of the paved road. Breathing hard, her body stiff, she wiped her face on her shirt. She’d gone about a hundred yards when the sun glared on a windshield.
A distant vehicle was approaching.
Jenn stood in the middle of the road.
As it drew closer, she waved her arms, her tears flowed, waving and begging, praying, willing it to stop.
It slowed, came within ten feet of her and stopped.
Jenn stood there, face in her hands, sobbing.
I’ve been saved! Thank you, God, thank you!
Ninety-Six
Erie County, New York
Concentrating on the police dispatcher’s tracking updates, Greg used Nate’s binoculars to examine the plate of every white van they saw while speeding south.
In the distance, they heard sirens as the dispatcher guided patrol units closer to their target’s path of travel.
Commercial buildings and neighborhoods began disappearing from view, the urban landscape melted into rural when Greg’s phone vibrated with a text from Al Clayton.
Greg, just heard about Jake, everything. The crew wants to help.
He texted back.
We’re heading south near Colden, Glenwood. Should be a police chopper to follow.
On our way.
Greg looked to the sky for the police helicopter when his phone rang. It was not blocked, and it was not police or media.
“Greg, it’s Brooke Bollman.”
“Brooke.” He couldn’t hear or see the chopper. “Not a good time.”
“I just heard the news. How can I help? What can I do?”
Greg’s attention shifted to Brooke, thoughts charging through his mind. How she’d wanted to partner with him, her hands all over him in the bar, battling the temptation, his urges, her text the night Jenn vanished—We’d be great together—showing up at the funeral in her formfitting dress... I didn’t know if I should be here, Greg...
His jaw tensed.
“Do you still drive a white van, Brooke?”
She didn’t answer.
Nate’s police scanner issued a static-filled update.