Dead in a Week (Forensic Instincts 7)

Ðakovo, Slavonia

1 March

Thursday, 12:45 p.m. local time

Ivan drove his now filthy car up the rutted dirt road and parked behind a stand of trees. An acre of land wrapped around what was ostensibly a deserted farmhouse, surrounded by nothing but soggy ground dotted with an occasional ice patch, all with a perimeter of unkempt brush and a crumbling stone wall. In the distance, there was the outline of a second farmhouse.

Instantly, Philip whipped out his binoculars and did an overall scan of the area.

“Where does this road ultimately lead to?” he asked. “And are there other ways to get in and out?”

Ellie’s answer to the first question was: “to a dead end” and to the second question: “no.”

Philip grabbed his Nikon D-850, removed the AF-S FX Nikkor eight-hundred-millimeter lens from its protective case, and attached the massive lens to the camera body. He’d be able to see a fly’s nostril hairs from a hundred meters with this thing—or so the salesman had said.

At the time, he’d wondered if a fly even had nostril hairs.

Quickly, he took a few shots. The place was a ramshackle structure that looked like it would collapse to the ground if given a hard shove. There was a barn outside but no animals in sight. Given the house dimensions, window placement, and one-story height, Philip suspected that what Jozef had said was true—this farm had the same layout as the one he’d provided in his sketch.

Long minutes passed as Philip continued his scrutiny. There were absolutely no signs of life and no sense that anyone had been here in months, maybe more.

Phili

p’s gut told him they should move on, making sure to stop a substantial distance away from the farmhouse. The deserted, barren road would make it far too easy to spot an approaching vehicle.

He made the request through Ellie, and Ivan nodded, pulling back onto the road and traveling closer to where the second farmhouse was located. Once again, he pulled his car behind a stand of trees, keeping it hidden from view.

Philip repeated his procedure. This farmhouse could have been cloned from the first. Same surroundings—unkempt brush, soggy ground, and crumbling stone fence. Same dilapidated appearance. Same construction. Same dimensions and exterior appearance. Same barn—or not.

Philip’s gaze locked on the side of the barn closest to the house, and he peered intently through his camera lens, moving from the barn to the house and focusing on an overhang of naked trees. Parked against the building—length-wise, headlights facing out—was a black sedan. The combination of its proximity to the house and the shadows cast by the tree branches—black on black—made it practically invisible, unless someone was looking hard.

Which Philip was.

He took some photos, then picked up his binoculars and resumed his surveillance, studying the house from different angles, making mental notes of concealment spots for the team to use during the rescue, and ultimately waiting to see what comings and goings might take place.

It took a while, but eventually his patience paid off. One muscular guy who had to be over six feet tall left through the back door, got into the black sedan, and pulled out.

As the car passed their secluded location, Philip had a good view of its driver, even without his binoculars.

“Is there anything distinguishable about him that suggests he’s of Albanian descent?” he asked Ivan.

“Tan skin, dark features aren’t just Albanian,” Ellie translated Ivan’s reply. “But he’s tall. That’s a trait of Albanian men.”

As she fell silent, the front door opened and a second guy sauntered out. Leaning against the side of the building, he lit up a cigarette and began to smoke. As soon as the butt became too small, he tossed it to the grass, ground it under his heel, and lit up another.

A chain smoker. Good. It meant the guy would make frequent trips outdoors to light up. And if he was a creature of habit, he’d probably choose the same spot to enjoy his cigarette. Which told Philip that he needed to time the cigarette breaks. That information could be crucial to their tactical plan.

It had been quiet for a while, so whoever else was inside with Lauren was either guarding her or otherwise occupied.

More waiting ensued.

Forty-five minutes later, the tall guy returned, parking in the exact same spot he’d left from. He opened the back door of the car and pulled out a few bags—bags that, upon closer scrutiny of Philip’s zoom lens—contained food and household supplies.

Okay, so the tall guy was the worker bee. And even though he used the back door for his comings and goings, he wouldn’t be a permanent fixture there. Plus he wouldn’t be going out for supplies more than once a day, and certainly not in the middle of the night or the wee hours of dawn.

That suggested that the back door was a weak point—making it a strong point of entry for the team.

That was all Philip was going to get for this quick go-round. Time to head back, collect his rental car, and return on his own. In truth, he could have used several days to get the full picture of arrivals and departures. But the team didn’t have the luxury of time. So he had to make a quick determination of the number of kidnappers and their routines.