The Extraction Read online

  Focus, Grinder! These mental wanderings aren’t going to save Trin.

  Back to business…

  Given that the series of clues are addressed to me and reference my cases, I’m clearly the best person to track down the boxes. But I’m also the best person to short-cut this process by identifying the kidnapper himself. We do that, and we skip the rest of the boxes and start tracking down the abductor directly. This would allow us to mount a rescue, an extraction, rather than following the criminal’s script. And that would give Trin a better chance of coming out of this ordeal alive. More than anyone, I know that despite their promises, many kidnappers murder their victims to eliminate eyewitnesses who could help track them down.

  But identifying the abductor just got harder. The second box of clues suggested a friend or family member of Evan Pritchard is Trin’s kidnapper. But this latest box points to an entirely different serial criminal: Edna Haas. How is that possible?

  Given the nonpublic case details referenced in the clues, I consider the possibility of an inside job…someone in law enforcement who has a beef with me. But why carry out this attack now, years after I quit the Bureau? I don’t need to be a criminal profiler to realize that had I pissed off a law officer that bad, that person wouldn’t have waited so long to carry out this plan. Plus, there wasn’t a single colleague in my FBI career who showed the level of resentment or anger remotely approaching the degree required to execute such an elaborate plot. Sure, I had friction with some people—Detective Murphy in the Pritchard case, for example—but that’s a ubiquitous part of the job in law enforcement. It comes with the territory.

  The only remaining explanation of Trin’s kidnapping is that somehow, associates of both criminals are working together. But why? It’s not like the criminals could have bumped into each other in prison. Given their different genders, they’re incarcerated in different facilities—always have been. Sampson confirmed they’ve never even ridden a penal transport at the same time. It’s impossible they could have talked directly. Not only that, but their cases were years apart, again casting doubt on the idea that they had somehow stumbled upon my role in their incarcerations.

  Perhaps the prisoners are aware of today’s plot, but confederates on the outside planned it…an anti-fan club formed for the purpose of exacting revenge on the person they see as instrumental for their loved ones’ capture: me.

  I fall back to the reflective action used in my old Bureau job. What do the clues suggest about the type of person who would plan and execute this type of crime?

  When confronted with only the Evan Pritchard clues, I noticed an overlap between the skills the kidnapper would need to bring to the table—organization, perseverance, patience—with the professional skills Evan’s father possessed. Coordinating the efforts of two groups joined only by their common purpose requires even greater organizational skills. Oswald Pritchard, Evan’s father, is a highly respected banker, an icon of industry. If he could serve on the board of directors for a national bank, surely he could manage this project.

  Edna Haas’s mother, on the other hand, lives off welfare. According to prison officials, she hasn’t communicated with her daughter for over two years. And of course, Edna’s father mysteriously disappeared years ago. From all accounts, no one communicates with Edna in prison. Surely someone who doesn’t bother to communicate with Edna wouldn’t lead a plan as risky as kidnapping my fiancée.

  I turn onto I-75 south. Once merged into traffic, I refocus my attention on crafting the most likely scenario: Oswald Pritchard’s simmering anger at his son’s incarceration reached a boiling point. He enlisted the help of Edna’s mother, who went so far as to share the details of her daughter’s crimes and scribble a few lines of bad poetry. Why? Because Oswald, the master planner, wants to avoid prosecution by throwing me off the scent. His plan must have started with tracking down other offenders who had been incarcerated via my profiling. In today’s internet-connected world, such information could be gathered with ease. Yes, Oswald still looks to be the ringleader—and my best shot at locating Trin without having to unravel all the clues.

  I dial Sampson and lay out my theory.

  “It makes sense, Grinder,” says Sampson, “but there’s no proof.”

  “Can you at least put a tail on Oswald? See what he’s been up to. Maybe even find a judge who’ll grant a wiretap on his cellphone?”

  “I can do the first, but getting that warrant…it’ll be a long shot, especially since Trin’s kidnapping falls under Atlanta’s jurisdiction, not mine.”

  “Try,” I say, trying to keep the pleading tone out of my voice, “or in just over seventeen hours, she dies.”

  CHAPTER 22

  My car bumps over a cluster of potholes in the main drive of Evergreen Estates Mobile Home Park. This place wasn’t in too bad a shape back during the investigation but has declined since then. Near the entrance, once-clean chain-link fences used to mark off one plot from the next lie in rusted tatters. Further into the development, the plots are larger, freeing up more space for weeds and broken toys to litter the ground.

  I continue down the park’s main road, then hang a left onto a gravel drive. Despite the interval of years since my last visit here, I proceed without error to the mobile home formerly occupied by Edna Haas. Bad cases are like that. Many of the details stick with you for life.

  Brakes squeal as my sedan comes to a crunching stop on the side of the road fronting Edna’s former trailer.

  The mobile home looks to be the same one, but at night, it’s hard to tell. In the glow of streetlamps, all the trailers have faded to a similar washed-out hue.

  I look again.

  Yes, this is Edna’s old trailer. The box of clues is sure to be outside. I simply have to find it.

  For the twentieth time, I mull over the poem’s last stanza.

  Suffering souls don’t get no justice

  Innocent women must take a stand

  Go back to the source of vengeance for ladies

  Where the juice of justice taints the land

  If this trailer is the “source of vengeance,” what does “juice of justice” mean? No blood was spilled here—not that I ever knew of. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Either way, I need to search the overgrown yard for the box.

  I exit my vehicle and begin a slow tour of the lot’s perimeter, by degrees spiraling inward towards the house. My foot has enough strength to brush aside weeds, but my entire body is needed to search beneath tangles of untrimmed shrubbery that dot the yard.

  While on this circuit, I recall the details of Edna herself, hoping something from her background will connect with the last clue. Her childhood was typical middle class at first. But then her father lost his job and fell into alcoholism. The addiction eroded his veneer of civilization, revealing the raw urges below. That’s when the sexual abuse began, continuing until Edna moved out years later.

  Such a traumatic childhood can’t help but evoke sympathy. Who can imagine the terror of her daily life? No wonder the jury struggled during the sentencing phase of her trial. Yet many children endure similar abuse without resorting to murdering strangers as an adult. Edna’s tragic upbringing might mitigate her culpability but doesn’t remove it. It certainly didn’t prevent her from learning the tricks of the criminal trade from the various crime shows she watched on TV. She demonstrated a knack for evading the police. From the spread of nightclubs visited to the hats used to hide her face and to the perfume bottle in which she concealed her date-rape drug, she…

  God! I’ve been an idiot! “Juice of justice.” What better name for the Ketamine she kept concealed in the perfume bottle? From her twisted perspective, the drug incapacitated the men she had chosen to bear the proxy punishment for her abusive father.

  What about “taints the land”? What does that mean? Then I remember…the day Nolan arrived here to arrest Edna, she ran outside in an attempt to pour the incriminating Ketamine on the ground. He stopped her, but only after a bit of the liquid
escaped. She poured it out right over there, a few yards outside the trailer’s main door. An enormous thicket of holly bushes covers the once-clear area—the perfect location to conceal a small box.

  I race over to the spot and use my shoulder to push aside prickly leaves.

  There, nestled up against the trunk! A pine box, a duplicate of the two I’ve found so far. I reach in and snatch the container, hugging it to my chest as I stand and back up from the bushes.

  “Hey, you can’t have that!” shouts a young voice from the mobile home. “That’s on our property!”

  A grubby boy of perhaps ten years steps onto the trailer’s single wooden step. “You better put that down or I’ll get my dad!”

  He doesn’t have to bother. A hulk of a man with his hair pulled into a tight ponytail appears on the step next to the lad. “Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just steal off my property.”

  I lick my lips. “I’m not stealing.”

  The Hulk motions to the box in my arms. “What the hell do you call that?” He steps to the ground and strolls my direction.

  “I think it was left for me. Let me look in it. It should have a note with my last name, ‘Farr,’ written on it. If it’s not the one I was expecting, you’re welcome to have it.”

  “Bullshit. Ain’t no one gonna leave a package for you on my land. I never seen you ‘round here before in my life, and I bet Roy next door ain’t never seen you before, neither.” He reaches towards the box in my arms.

  I twist it away from him. “Look, just let me take a glance ins—”

  The man’s fist swings with impressive speed. My backside crashes into the weeds before I realize I’ve been hit. I try to stand but find my equilibrium is still too out of whack.

  The Hulk picks up the box I’ve dropped and hands it to the boy. “Here ya go, son. Let’s see what this guy was trying to take.”

  I raise myself to a wobbly crouch, holding an arm forward to steady myself. Pain radiates from my mouth.

  With glowing eyes, the child opens the wooden box. He looks inside, shrieks, and drops it like it sprouted fangs. Crying, he runs inside the trailer.

  The father peers into the still-open box on the ground. He starts, then shakes his head before trailing after the boy. “Damn, son, don’t be such a wussie. It’s just a dead bird…” His voice disappears as the trailer door slams shut behind him.

  Better grab my prize and scram before he has a change of heart. I snatch it off the ground and snap it shut before jogging for my car. Falling into the driver’s seat, I wipe a trickle of blood from my lip and shake my head. You should’ve listened to me, asshole, and saved your kid the trauma.

  First things first. Best to put some distance between me and the trailer’s occupants before analyzing the latest clue.

  I twist the key.

  Nothing.

  I twist it again, over and over, growing more desperate each time the motion fails to start the car.

  “C’mon, baby,” I mumble. “Don’t fail me now.”

  The engine’s weak attempts to turn over fall silent. My ride isn’t going anywhere. I knew I should’ve taken the damn thing to the shop last week.

  I grab the box off the seat and take off down the road, away from the giant inside the trailer. Thank God night has already fallen, or he’d spot me for sure.

  I’m about to run for the trailer park’s entrance when a voice calls me.

  “Hey, young man. Do you want to come inside?” An elderly lady in a faded, floral nightgown waves to me from the entrance of the trailer next door.

  I hesitate.

  “Hurry before Alan comes back out,” she calls in a half-whisper.

  Maybe she’ll be able to give me a ride. I dash for the door and bolt through. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, young man.”

  Despite the obvious age of its furnishings, the mobile home has a comfortable, cozy feel. Brass and porcelain lamps dating from the early twentieth century complement a spotless sofa and loveseat upholstered in a rose-and-vine pattern. This lady likes flowers.

  “You don’t want to stay out there,” she continues. “Alan gets angry quite easily, and he’ll be back. You should’ve seen him the other day. He—”

  “I’m sorry, m’am,” I cut in, “but I have to get a ride immediately. Any chance you could give me a lift? Or would you mind if I borrowed your car for a few hours?”

  Her melancholy smile lingers a moment. “I haven’t had a car since ninety-two. I couldn’t see well enough to drive anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me in, but—”

  “I knew it!” she murmurs from the window. “He’s out there now.”

  I walk to her side and peek out. She’s right. The Hulk is circling my car, probably deciding which part to smash first. As a strategy, coming in here may have backfired. Now I can’t even hightail it down the road, not as long as he’s out there waiting to pound me again.

  “Do you have someone you can call?” says the lady. “You’re welcome to stay here until they arrive.”

  “Yes, that’d be great. Thanks.” I activate my phone and summon an Uber driver. “Ma’am, this is going to sound incredibly rude, but I really need a few moments to think. You see…”

  She raises placating hands. “Don’t you worry your head. I can see you have something important on your mind.” She retreats to the kitchen and fills a teakettle before placing it on the stove.

  How much time does Trin have left? Sixteen hours.

  I fall into the nearest chair and place the box in my lap. Now to see exactly what it contains…

  CHAPTER 23

  I swing open the lid. Sure enough, the box contains the carcass of a pigeon. The gentle curves of its soft gray plumage seem at odds with its twisted neck. I raise the box to get a good look at the bird’s head and grimace when spotting the evidence I suspected would be there. There’s no question which criminal from my past this tiny corpse represents—even without reading the folded note that lies underneath its body. Not that I can skip reading the note. I’ll need its second clue to find the next box.

  Unfolding the paper, I smooth it out and read its words.

  u know who I be

  b4 u see

  this note from me

  dis bird ain’t gon fly

  in da sky

  an u know why

  it jus a fuckin toy

  4 dis boy

  2 destroy

  des birds they went on back

  2 the sack

  then i attacked

  i killed dem bitches 2

  n raised the roof

  til i was thru

  but then I went n died

  n now I lie

  til pigs will fly

  This note’s writing style is as different from the others as I expected it to be. More like hip hop than anything else. And that would fit with Ballinger, the third criminal from my profiling past who has appeared in today’s typed notes.

  Michael…Fucking…Ballinger. I close my eyes against the nightmare this criminal represented. The words on the note rise before me like a specter from the past.

  I glance at the Uber app. Still ten minutes before the driver arrives at our remote location—enough time to cast my mind back to the details of Ballinger’s crime spree in hopes of teasing out the meaning of this cryptic note…

  A winter storm blew frigid rain into my face. Two more degrees, and we would have been treated to a snow shower. As it was, the morning sky delivered a pneumonia-inducing deluge.

  I welcomed the shelter provided by the rundown clapboard house in Atlanta’s decrepit south side. That is, until I spotted Ida Malone’s remains in the kitchen. Somehow foreknowledge of an on-scene corpse never prepares you for the shock of encountering the mangled body itself.

  And this one had been mangled in a most disturbing way.

  I approached to within three feet of the corpse. Any closer and I’d run the risk of disturbing the cluster of flags and placards
used to mark evidence.

  A middle-aged lady dressed in cheap tan pants and purple nylon blouse lay in a twisted heap. Her left forearm bore evidence of defensive wounds, and ligature marks encircled her neck and both wrists.

  But it was her eyes that caught my attention. Or rather, her lack of eyes. They had been carved from her face, leaving behind skeletal orbs.

  I turned to Detective Miyake of the Atlanta PD, my escort and lead investigator of the three cases to date. “Did you ever find…those?” I motion towards the hollows in her face.

  “Yeah, in the sink’s garbage disposal. Luckily, an old piece of onion already in there kept them from being torn to shreds.”

  “Why lucky? Can you get evidence from them?”

  “Maybe. We won’t know ‘til they’re in the lab. But for sure we can’t if they’re down in the sewers.”

  “What about the other two victims?” I asked. “Were you able to track down their eyeballs, too?”

  “Naw. Ground to shreds, probably. They weren’t anywhere we could find them.”

  That minor detail represented one of the few differences of the two earlier homicides from this one. In almost every other respect, the three crime scenes had displayed frighteningly similar MOs: a middle aged female victim living alone in modest housing had allowed someone in—at least there were no signs of a forced entry. The offender overpowered the victim, hog-tied, beat, and killed her, then carved out her eyes.

  “When did it happen?” I asked.

  “Between eight and midnight last night, just like the other two.”

  I lean over for a closer look. “Did the other vics have bruising to the face, too?”

  “Yep. Looks like he liked to slap them around first.”

  Ideas began to swirl in my mind, to coalesce around the reality that this offender didn’t like older women. Several theories as to why that would be the case popped into my head, but better to reserve judgment until we’d collected more evidence.

  “The bruising,” I asked. “Was it always on the right side of their faces?”