Chill Factor

The question was rhetorical. Which was good, since hearing pornography referred to as “fiddle books” had left Hoot speechless.

The closet door was standing open. Begley peered inside. “Casual, but it’s quality stuff,” he remarked after checking several labels.

“His credit card statements will attest to that,” Hoot said. “He doesn’t shop at discount stores.”

Begley turned on his heel and quickly left the room. He stamped across the living area and opened the door to the second bedroom. He’d taken no more than two steps into the room when he was brought up short. “Here we go. Hoot!”

Hoot rushed to join him just inside the doorway. “Oh, man,” he said under his breath.

Pictures of the five missing women had been taped to the wall above a table, which Hoot realized was the dining table that should have been in the kitchenette. He hadn’t missed it there until he saw it here.

On the table was a personal computer and an evidence treasure trove of printed material. Newspaper accounts of the missing women had been clipped from the Cleary Call, as well as from newspapers as far away as Raleigh and Nashville. Passages had been marked with colored felt-tip pens.

Yellow legal tablets contained pages of scribbled notes, some scratched through, some underlined or otherwise noted as worth reviewing or remembering. There were five file folders, one for each of the young women. They contained sheets of handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, photos that had been published on missing persons posters or in the media.

And every time there was a mention of the unidentified culprit, it had been highlighted with a blue marker.

Begley pointed down to such a passage. “Blue.”

“I noticed that, sir.”

“His signature color.”

“So it would seem.”

“Ever since he took Torrie Lambert.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The computer—”

“Will no doubt have a user password.”

“Think you can crack that, Hoot?”

“I’ll certainly try, sir.”

“Awright, hold it right there, ’less you want yore heads blowed clean off.” The voice had the resonance of a cement mixer. “Raise yore hands and turn round real slow-like.”

Begley and Hoot did as asked and found themselves looking down the twin bores of a double-barreled shotgun.

Hoot said, “Hello, Mr. Elmer. Remember me? Charlie Wise?”

He was standing in the center of the room, shotgun raised to chest level. When Hoot called him by name, he squinted for better focus. His face was as red and wrinkled as a persimmon that had been in the sun too long. He was wearing a ratty, moth-eaten watch cap, from which trailed strands of stringy hair that were the same dingy white as his bushy beard. Tobacco juice stains rimmed his lips, which broke into a smile that revealed toothless gums, save for three brown stumps.

“Lord a’mighty. I could’ve kilt you.” He lowered the shotgun. “Did you come to give Mr. Tierney his award?”

Hoot had to think a moment before remembering the cover story he’d fabricated to explain his interest in Ben Tierney. “Uh, no. This is Special Agent in Charge Begley. We’re—”

“Gus? You in there?”

“Aw, hell,” Gus Elmer said. “I done called the po-lice. Thought somebody was in here stealing Mr. Tierney’s stuff while he weren’t here.”

Under his breath, Begley muttered a stream of profanity.

The old man turned to wave in the police officer who poked his head inside the main door. Pistol in hand, he gave the FBI agents a curious once-over. “These the burglars?”

“We’re not burglars.” Hoot could tell by Begley’s voice that he’d had enough of this nonsense and was about to regain control of a situation that had rapidly unraveled. He pushed Hoot forward and soundly closed the door to the bedroom behind them to prevent the other two from seeing what they’d discovered.