“Then where?”
She fell silent and stared at the framed photo of Jed on the coffee table. “I just figured he’d dug a big hole in the ground somewhere. Where else could he be going?”
I went outside and called Jessie on my cell phone. A veil of storm clouds had descended over the neighborhood, and a harsh rain was falling.
“Hi, Daddy,” my daughter answered. “How did it go with Heather?”
“Not good,” I said. “Heather’s in trouble. I need to find Jed.”
“What can I do?”
“You grew up with Heather, and shared a lot of friends. I want you to call them, and ask them if they remember a secret hiding place that Jed had. Maybe there’s an old bomb shelter buried in someone’s backyard, or an abandoned garage. Jed’s got a hideout, and he’s had it for a while. Hopefully, one of Heather’s friends will know where it is.”
“I’ll call them right now,” my daughter said.
I folded my phone. Across the street, a small army of FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests and carrying rifles had gathered on the sidewalk. Whitley was with them, barking out orders, and I watched the agents break into groups, and begin a house-to-house search of the neighborhood. Seeing me, Whitley crossed the street.
“We just picked up a message on LeAnn Grimes’s voice mail,” the FBI agent said. “You can hear Jed beating up his wife. We’re going to find him before he kills her.”
I started to protest, then clamped my mouth shut. Whitley had made up his mind that Jed was guilty, and nothing I could say was going to change that belief. I watched him hurry away. Then Jessie called me back.
“I just got off the phone with Cinda Bowe, one of Jed’s old girlfriends,” my daughter said. “Cinda said that Jed’s neighborhood used to be on private well and septic, but got switched over to city water and sewer. Most of the houses kept their septic tanks, and Jed spent a summer cleaning several out, and connecting them with underground tunnels. Cinda said Jed even ran electricity down there.”
“Did Jed ever take Cinda there?” I asked. “Cinda went there once and smoked pot with Jed. She said it stank like a sewer, so she never went back.”
“Did she remember where it was?”
“Cinda said it happened when she was a kid. She forgot the exact location, but said it was a couple of blocks away from Jed’s mom’s house.”
Cinda Bowe wasn’t old enough to be forgetting things like that. My daughter’s friend wasn’t telling the whole truth, probably because she didn’t want her name coming up. We were running out of time, and I decided to press her.
“Give me Cinda’s number,” I said.
“But, Daddy-”
“Give it to me.”
“She’ll freak out if you call her.”
“Good. I always enjoy a freakout.”
“Let me call her. Please. I can make Cinda talk.”
I hesitated. I needed to get to Jed first. It was my only guarantee that he wouldn’t get shot.
“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
