“What is your brother's name?”
“Cecil Cooper.”
The manager ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. C. Cooper. Room 42. Your brother is staying on the second floor.”
“Oh, thank you so much. You're so sweet!”
Outside, we took a set of stairs to the second floor. The motel was beside the highway, and the endless drone of passing cars was giving me a headache. We found Room 42 at the end of the building, a do not disturb sign hanging from the knob. Sally extracted Cecil's room key from her purse, then grabbed my wrist with her other hand.
“You've been working out, haven't you?” I said.
“Promise me you won't take anything, Jack.”
“Didn't you believe me the first time?”
“No, I have trust issues with men.”
“I won't take anything,” I promised.
Cecil's room was about what you'd expect for $29.99 a night. Rickety furniture, threadbare carpet, smoky mirrored walls that desperately needed a shot of Windex, a slab for a bed. Sally shut the door behind us, and we were thrown into darkness. I heard her hand scrape the wall, then the lights came on.
Sally checked the bathroom while I looked around the bedroom. Except for an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and several dead soldiers in the trash, the room was clean. Next to the telephone was a notepad with deep indentations in the top page, indicating that someone had recently written on it. Holding the notepad beneath the light, I attempted to read the indentations, only they were too faint.
“Have a pencil?” I asked Sally.
“There's a mechanical one in my purse,” she said.
Sally's purse was on the bed. I removed the mechanical pencil from a side pocket and extended the lead. Holding the lead sideways, I used it to shade the top page of the notepad. Before my eyes, the indentations turned into words.
P: Tram, Peggy Sue
K: Shannon (age 3)
C: Ford Pickup
L: BSX 4V6
P: Magic Kingdom
KID LOVES MICKEY
Cecil hadn't impressed me as a detail guy, yet the notepad indicated otherwise. Cecil knew exactly who he was tracking, right down to which theme park the Dockerys were planning to visit, and Shannon's fascination with Mickey Mouse. Sally came out of the bathroom, and I showed her the notepad. Her eyes grew wide.
“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
