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Tobin fell, twisting like a party streamer, and landed hard on the floor. Damien bent down and snatched his Glock from Tobin’s hand, then pointed it at Sanders, unsure what the old, dying man would do in the face of his son’s suicide.
Sanders kept his gun on Damien, but his gaze was locked on Tobin’s body. The wall behind it was sprayed with his son’s brains and flesh, while a pool of crimson blood pooled under the dead boy’s head. The smell of moist copper from Tobin’s blood began to replace the scent of the cabin’s burnt wood.
Damien stepped out of Sanders’ direct line of fire and moved toward the front door of the cabin.
Feeling his pockets, Damien found his cellphone was missing.
“Sanders, we have to call this in,” Damien said. “Give me your phone.”
The old detective stood, frozen, his right arm extended with his pistol aiming at an empty space, while his head was leaned to the side, staring at Tobin’s cooling corpse.
Damien moved up behind Sanders and pulled his cellphone from his pocket.
Seconds later he had his commander on the phone. He gave a brief and urgent review of the events which led to Tobin’s suicide.
Lieutenant Decker told him to wait at the cabin until he and the crime techs arrived, but Damien couldn’t wait that long. No one knew the clues to Charity’s location better than the two cops standing in the room. If the young woman was to survive, Damien would have to get Sanders to put aside the death of his son and focus on the life of Tobin’s final victim.
He pulled at Sanders’ arm, but the old detective remained rooted in place.
“We have to go,” Damien said. “I can’t save Charity without you. You’re the only one who can weed through Mark’s bullshit and help me find the girl.”
Sanders didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Damien’s orders.
“Sanders! We have to go.”
“I can’t leave him,” Sanders said. “You go. I’ll wait here.”
Damien took Sanders’ gun from his hand and placed it in the detective’s holster, then grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him away from his son’s body.
Looking into Sanders’ tired eyes, Damien spoke in a soft, firm tone.
“I’m sorry for your son,” he said. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, but there’s nothing more we can do here. We can’t save him, but we can save Charity. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever dark pit is growing inside of you, only you can keep Charity’s parents from experiencing the same grief. You’ll have the rest of your life to mourn your son. We only have hours to save Charity.”
Damien said those words with as much sincerity as he could muster, but it was nothing more than an intellectual exercise. Sanders’ world had just shattered in front of his eyes and Damien was trying to convince the old man to put together enough pieces so they could go save someone else’s child.
He expected Sanders to tell him to fuck off, but, instead the old man nodded and took slow steps toward the door.
***
Damien drove Sanders’ car, leaving his Crown Vic at the cabin. Knowing it was evidence of his kidnapping, he care- fully searched and retrieved his wallet and cellphone from the glove compartment where Tobin had stored it, then left the keys on the front seat.
Sanders’ car smelled like stale smoke and pine scent. The steering wheel was worn smooth at ten and two and the gear shift was on the column. The sedan was old, ragged and running on empty, like the detective himself.
Sanders’ eyes were glazed and stared out the front window. He was looking at everything and nothing at the same time.
Damien sped back toward Hayeston, but didn’t know where Tobin’s clues were leading him. He sifted through their conversation, about the interactions with Plank and Mark, the memories of Damien’s father speaking at his class, and the outrageous belief that Taylor’s body, and Charity’s location, were somehow tied to his parents.
Such connections made no sense.
Mark had to be lying. Sociopaths demanded control and, having been stuck in a cell on death row for over a decade, he had none. He must have seen Tobin as a godsend, a willing pawn he could use to inflict pain on the two people he hated the most – the detective that arrested him and the friend that abandoned him.
Yet, perhaps, buried under the avalanche of old and new clues, dusty files and coded letters, was the truth.
“Why would Mark say Taylor’s body is tied to my parents?” Damien asked.
Sanders remained silent, his thoughts elsewhere. “Sanders, are you listening to me? I need help. When Tobin mentioned my parents, you reacted as if you under- stood the connection. Why?”
“I had a hunch,” Sanders said, his gruff voice weakened to a whisper. “Your father wasn’t a good man.”
“I know,” Damien said. “He was abusive and a jerk, but he wasn’t a killer.”
“He liked Mark. Spent time with him. I never understood why.”
“But now you do?”
“Maybe. Mark didn’t look up to anyone. He was the center of his own universe. But he may have admired your dad during his transition into a serial killer. Perhaps he murdered Taylor in a way to honor your father, by linking it to a meaningful event in his life. Whatever Mark and Tobin talked about, it led him to Taylor’s body and Charity’s location. Even if its connection to your father is bullshit, part, or all, of what Mark told my son was true.”
“It’s time to find out,” Damien said, pulling out his cell- phone. A quick dial later and his call was answered. “Jacob, this is Damien. What do you know about mom and dad’s first date?”
Damien listened to his brother’s recollections and they matched his own, point by point. His parents met at a country dance. The next night they had dinner at Rocco’s Italian Restaurante. The following night they went to the movies. Three months later they were engaged. A year, to the day, of their first date, they were married.
Same story. Same history. Same memories. As Damien ended the call he shook his head.
“Follow the evidence,” Sanders said. “Even if it’s a dead end, the journey may show us the right way to go.”
“Okay.”
Damien quick dialed a second number.
“Ted, meet me at Rocco’s Italian Restaurante in ten minutes. We’re hoping to find Charity Lynn before it’s too late.”