Of the truth.
Of the lies.
Of what we’ll find.
Of what we won’t.
That Gabriel Reeve is my son.
That he isn’t.
And, most of all, I’m afraid of you, O’Keefe, and the way you twist me up inside.
“Nothing,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel, and to prove it, she took his lousy beer, pulled the tab and took a long, deep swallow. “Let’s find the boy and my damned dog!”
Unsatisfactory.
That’s what all the media attention was, he thought as he walked through the barn with its smells of warm cattle and dusty feed. The animals had been fed, so he ignored their lowing and the smell, which reminded him that he would have to do the dirty work of mucking out the feeding area. Fortunately, he was down to two cows, just enough to keep his wife from wondering why he spent so much time in the barn. His half-finished project of shoring up the hayloft was also an excuse to spend more time away from the house.
Fortunately, his wife was a city woman, with allergies to hay and animals, and never set foot in the barn. It was his domain. What she didn’t understand was that the cattle were merely props, an excuse to keep this rattletrap of a barn his great-great-grandfather had bought. He’d found the secret room as a boy, and his mother, in one of her calm periods, had explained that it had been built during Prohibition when Great-great-granddaddy had supplied the locals with bootleg booze. Hence the plumbing already in the cavernlike rooms.
Now, he shoved a couple of heavy barrels to one side and found the trapdoor. Opening it, he flipped a switch that started the generator he’d installed himself, and then he descended the hundred-year-old spiral staircase into the natural caverns below.
He landed in the first cavern, then, hunched over, made his way along the narrow opening to the larger underground caves in these foothills. It was a ten-minute hike, but worth it because, hidden in the woods above, on the outer edge of his property, was an opening much more accessible, where he could park his truck, hook up his winch and run a cable down here. The sloping access made moving his statues easier. All he had to do was hook the winch to a pair of huge ice picks he’d fashioned, like pointed tongs that gripped the ice, then positioning the blocks on a rolling cart, he winched them up to the surface and into his truck. Seconds later, with the canopy in place, he could drive unnoticed into town, his precious cargo securely hidden and ready to be displayed.
He reached the larger caverns.
His darlings were all here.
Waiting.
Ready to be enshrined in a frozen mantle and then carved before being put on display.
No one seemed to understand the importance of his art, the pain he’d endured, the excruciating time he’d spent meticulously locating his subjects, then plotting their abductions and then the problems with holding them until they were ready, and finally, of course, the actual sculpting. The police hadn’t so much as mentioned that he was an artist or that there was anything the least bit unique about his work.
All they were concerned with was “catching the killer.” Nothing more.
Sheriff Dan Grayson had stood next to the public information officer on the short steps of the Pinewood County Sheriff ’s Department, though he hadn’t said a word and had let the tough-looking middle-aged woman make a short statement, then without fielding any questions whatsoever, left the steps.
It’s because they don’t know up from sideways. You’ve got them scared and worried. They don’t know what to do but they have to say something, so they give out a little information, ask for the public’s help and end it. It’s a good thing. It means you’re in control.
The reporters weren’t much better. One had even said, “The victim was discovered in a block of ice.” There had been no mention of the detail in the exquisite molds, in the craftsmanship and of the artistry involved.
Idiots!
Cretins!
His fist clenched and he had to mentally count to ten before allowing his calmer interior voice to speak to him.
What did you expect? You’ll have to show them. Make a bigger statement. Maybe abduct someone more well known, a person all of the community would recognize. The reporter who had stood in front of the crèche would be a good candidate. She’d been perky and talked fast, with flawless skin and ... No! That woman was just another pretty face, but there was another one whom the community had embraced, who had proven herself to be clever and had outwitted several others before him.
He smiled inwardly as he thought of Selena Alvarez. Beautiful. Smart. Quoted in the papers. Seen on the television. A local heroine of sorts.
She would be perfect to elevate his work ...
A moan whispered through the caverns and he was brought back to the present. He had work to do! He couldn’t spend any time fantasizing about his next step.
First things, first.