were—trust me on that one—but hell, even I still run into a tense situation or two while covering the story. And I’m local. People in this town are super hyper-sensitive about the case. I’ve learned to ask the right questions and when to back off. Do that and you’ll be fine. Don’t do it, and you might be headed for some trouble.”
Chapter Eleven
CJ’s talk about unfriendly territory left me feeling a little uneasy. I got her point, and I understood it. Through the years, I’d run into my share of hostile subjects. But understanding didn’t mean I had to like it.
Like it or not, she was right, as I quickly found out when I tried to visit the old Kingsley house. Bill and Norma Bansch now owned it and had been living there for the past fifteen years. When I called to request a look inside, Bill gave me a definitive
So much for southern hospitality.
But I wasn’t going to let it deter me from stopping by and checking out the neighborhood. I needed to see where Nathan had lived and where his life had come to its tragic end.
It was a small place on the south side of town just past the railroad tracks. Starter homes, I think they call them: tiny houses with even tinier yards. It was probably a quaint little neighborhood back in the day, but the years had chipped away at its charm; pride of ownership no longer seemed to be a priority here. More than a few of the houses had paint peeling, driveways cracked, and no landscaping to speak of—unless, of course, you counted the brown, weed-infested grass.
I parked a good fifty yards from the Kingsley house, figuring I could make a quick getaway if someone became disagreeable. Then I took a good look at the place; it was in better shape than some of its neighbors, but something about it made me vaguely uneasy, as if there were a need for spiritual repairs. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but…well, a young boy had been kidnapped from here, sexually abused, and murdered. That would creep anyone out.
I pulled a baseball cap down low on my forehead, then picked up a stack of flyers I’d grabbed off the counter at the local coffee shop:
I crossed to the opposite side of the street and went to work stuffing flyers in doors.
The first thing that pinged my radar was how close together all the houses were, separated only by narrow driveways and thin slices of lawn. That would have made it more of a challenge to grab a kid in broad daylight. Also odd, I thought, was that only one person had seen Lucas that day—the mailman—and that was before Nathan disappeared.
Nothing during, nothing after.
Nabbing a toddler is noisy business; they tend to scream a lot when a stranger pulls them from the comforts of home and their mothers. Someone should have heard something. I watched a few cars drive past from different directions, then looked up and down the street: open on both ends.
Very odd, indeed.
What’s more, the newspaper said that Jean had gone to the curb to check the mail. But the mailbox was less than fifty feet from the front door. Unless she’d stopped to read a letter, it shouldn’t have taken her more than twenty-five seconds to make it back to the house.
Lots of obstacles, and yet Lucas seemed to sail through them all with no trouble at all.
Closer to the Kingsley house now, I slowed my steps. I needed to see that back window. I peered up the driveway and saw the garage door was open and the inside empty. A good sign. I came to the front, shoved a flyer in the door, then moved quickly to the rear. Stood by the window. CJ was right: the ledge was only a few feet off the ground. Easy in, easy out. Kid didn’t stand a chance.
But then I gazed out at the mailbox. Just as I’d thought; it was a straight line of sight. This meant Lucas had a very small margin of error if he wanted to avoid being seen, and with a toddler under his arm, no less. Yet another obstacle.
Doubtful, but too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind.
Then I realized where I was standing, and stepped back. Quickly. This was the exact spot where a toddler had been pulled away from his loving family and straight into hell. Sexually abused. Murdered. Tossed in the dirt somewhere out in the remote Texas desert like so much trash.
I couldn’t stay there any longer, not by that window, not even in that neighborhood. I hurried down the driveway, crossed the street, then went straight for my car. Got in and sped off down the road without so much as a backward glance.
I may not have seen the Ghost of Nathan, but I’d seen enough.
Chapter Twelve
My mind was speeding faster than my car after I left the Kingsley house. I shouldn’t have let it get to me. I’m a reporter. I’m supposed to separate my feelings, keep them out of my way; it bothers me when I can’t. I’ll admit I’ve got a soft spot for kids, maybe because my own childhood was so lousy. My experience paled in comparison to what Nathan Kingsley suffered, but on some level, in some way, it still resonated. I felt for him. Death was too good for this Lucas guy.
Then I reminded myself that my mother and Warren also had a hand in this, and my stomach did another flip.
I drew in a deep, shaky breath, tried to find balance in my perspective. Drove on.
I wanted to stop by the grocery store where Nathan and his mother had shopped that day, but soon found that it no longer existed. Now standing in its place was the town’s very first McDonald’s.
There’s progress for you.
I walked around the area for a bit instead, trying to grab hold of my emotions and maybe a better understanding of how things had gone down that long-ago day. Tried speaking to a few merchants, but nobody seemed remotely interested in talking to me.
I was starting to get the message.
Jerry Lindsay lived in a 1950s colonial style house on the north side of town. His wife, Beatrice, answered the front door and led me to their sunroom where the retired sheriff was drinking coffee and reading the paper.
At sixty-three-years-old, he was still rock-solid: six-foot-plus frame, broad shoulders, and large, rough hands that had clearly done their share of work over the years. He looked every bit the retired cop with his thick silvery hair, matching mustache, and an intense, unyielding stare that I imagined had proven useful in the interrogation room.
He stood and shook my hand—nearly squeezing the life out of it—then pointed at the chair across from him. It felt more like an order than an act of hospitality.
I slipped my pad and pen from my pocket as I took my seat.
“The Kingsley case,” Lindsay said, filtering his words through mild laughter. “What on earth made you wanna pick up and come all the way out here for that?”
“It fits with a story I’m doing on missing children.”
He grunted. “Huh. No missing kids over there in California?”
“We’re a national magazine, Sheriff. I cover crimes all over the country.”
He held my gaze, arched a brow, went silent.
I said, “Did you ever figure out what Lucas did with the body?”
“No, and I doubt we ever will.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m guessing it’s because he did a damn good job of hiding it.” The tone was smug, the look on his face even
