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  “What’s up, Dusty?”

  “The dogs found one.”

  Less than half an hour later, they found a second one.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With his seven-year-old Toyota Camry still in possession of the state police, Jason had taken a taxi for his final trip to the Barker Creative Agency. He’d received a call on his way there, though, informing him that his vehicle had been fully processed for investigative purposes and was now available for him to retrieve. On his way to pick up the car after leaving the office—his second cab ride of the morning—Howard returned his call. Nine forty-five a.m. Not even seven in the morning in Los Angeles. Jason smiled.

  When he answered, Howard gave a little lip service to having been concerned for Jason’s welfare but moved on quickly to the fact that he’d been able to pit two publishers against each other and had the offer for a Crackerjack book up to $300,000, with hopes of raising it even higher. Moreover, Paramount—interestingly, the studio that had optioned the rights to The Drifter’s Knife before ultimately scrapping the project—was offering $150,000 for a twelve-month option against a total purchase price of $400,000 if the movie entered production. The studio even hinted that it might want to revisit the idea of making a movie out of The Drifter’s Knife, to which it still owned the film rights. As Jason recalled, the payout on the first day of principal photography on that project would be $250,000. And to top it all off, Howard had been trading messages with executives at both 20th Century Fox and Universal Studios.

  Jason’s head was swimming. Last week he was writing marketing copy for an annual salary of $42,500. Today, he had offers already totaling ten times that amount from major publishers and Hollywood studios, and the possibility of another $250,000 or more.

  He suddenly remembered exactly how good he’d felt a few short years ago, when The Drifter’s Knife was briefly a hot property before flaming out and descending into the oblivion of Development Hell, as it was known in “the Industry.” But now, that project actually might rise like a phoenix from its own ashes . . . carrying a sack of cash in its beak.

  They chatted a little more about the possibilities. Jason mentioned Elaine Connors and the opportunity for a newsmagazine show.

  “Fantastic,” Howard said. “Can’t buy that kind of publicity. It will generate even more heat. Might add twenty percent to our offers.”

  Jason wasn’t greedy. Personally, he’d jump at the offers already on the table. But Howard knew what he was doing.

  “I’m going to keep working it, Jason. See what I can milk out of everyone. There’s no need to rush it. This will stay hot for a while still, especially if you give a few interviews, get your face and your story out there. But don’t give too much away for free. Save something for the book.”

  “Okay.”

  “And speaking of which, you might want to get started organizing your thoughts, considering your approach to it. Whichever offer we take, they’re going to want an outline, and maybe even a few sample chapters, on the sooner side.”

  Before Jason could respond, his phone beeped, signaling another call coming in. He snuck a peek at the screen and recognized the number.

  “I hear you, Howard,” he said. “I have to go now. Talk soon.”

  He flashed to the incoming call and said, “Hello.”

  A voice he recognized immediately replied, “Jason Swike? It’s Elaine Connors from The Real Scoop.”

  A few minutes later, Jason ended the call with the famous television-show host. Twenty minutes after that, he was behind the wheel of his own car again.

  And, for the first time in years, he felt behind the wheel of his own life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The phone rang on the desk in Ian Cobb’s cramped home office, from which he ran the plumbing business he had inherited from his father. He pressed the “Speakerphone” button.

  “Cobb and Sons Plumbing,” he said.

  “Hi, this is Elaine Connors.”

  Cobb said nothing.

  “Mr. Cobb, this is Elaine Connors.” Silence. “Um, of The Real Scoop.”

  “Okay.”

  “I left a message at this number but you didn’t return my call.”

  She didn’t need to tell him that. He was aware of it.

  After a pause, she continued. “Mr. Cobb, as I said in my message, I’d love to interview you about . . . well, you know what it would be about. And I’d even come to you. How does that sound?”

  “I’m not interested in being famous, Ms. Connors.”

  “Elaine, please.” She paused, as though waiting for him to invite her to call him by his first name. After a moment, she added, “And who doesn’t want to be famous?”

  “Me.”

  She chuckled. “Well, I’m afraid the toothpaste is out of the tube, Mr. Cobb. You’re already famous.”

  “Well, let’s say that I don’t wanna be more famous, then. I just wanna forget about all this and move on.”

  “That’s totally understandable. You’ve been through a lot. But the thing is, as you must realize, this story isn’t going away for a while. It’s big news. Crackerjack killed ten men, one of them a budding rock star and son of a fabulously wealthy, jet-setting restaurateur.”

  Yes, Cobb knew. Crackerjack’s fourth victim had certainly cranked up the public’s interest in the case.

  “And then two would-be victims escape from his clutches?” Connors was saying. “And kill the bad guy, no less? That’s a fantastic story, my friend. And like it or not, you’re one of its heroes.”

  “I’m not really,” he said. “You should talk to Jason Swike.”

  “I have. And he’s in.”

  “He is?”

  “Sure is. And I want you to be in, too. It wouldn’t be complete without the both of you. And it would give you the chance to tell the story your way. In your own words. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Jason Swike was going to be interviewed? That changed things.

  “We’d pay you an appearance fee, of course, Mr. Cobb. Five hundred dollars.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Let me get this straight,” Ben said. “Television interview. Book deal. Movie deal. Possibly another movie when they dig The Drifter’s Knife out of mothballs. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  Jason was driving with one hand and holding his cell phone to his ear with the other. “That’s what Howard says.”

  “Next time a serial killer starts grabbing victims, sign me up.”

  “Will do, Ben, because it was loads of fun. I wasn’t scared for my life at all, and I sure wasn’t worried about the possibility of Max growing up without a father.”

  “Too soon for levity?”

  “A little.”

  “Fair enough. I’m just saying that if you had to go through something horrible like you did, at least you’re getting something out of it, right? You got knocked off course a couple of years ago when they decided not to make a movie out of your first book, and your next couple of books . . .”

  “Sucked?”

  “I was going to say that they didn’t sell. But who cares now? You’re back on track. You’ve got money. You’re on your way.”

  “Well, I’ll be able to take care of my family, at least. That’s what matters most. We’ve got some expensive issues, as you know.”

  “I know,” he said as sincerely as was possible for Ben. “That’s really good. I know you’ve been worried.”

  Worried didn’t come close to describing the level of Jason’s anxiety about his financial situation over the past year or so. After the accident, Sophie had shut down her business as a massage therapist, which she loved, and become a per diem medical-record transcriptionist, which she didn’t. But at least she could do the job from home. In addition to being unfulfilling, though, it paid quite a bit less. Janice couldn’t help much, living as she was on a modest stipend from a modest portfolio Sophie’s father had left behind when he succumbed to lung cancer
a few years ago. But providing for his family was Jason’s responsibility. He wanted to support them, at least as much as he could.

  But he’d been failing. His salary went only so far. After paying his own living expenses and most of his family’s, there was little left to replenish the savings they had chewed through after the car accident. The fact was, their bank accounts were nearly empty and they were probably only a few months away from having to sell the house.

  But money wasn’t the only reason he’d slaved away at Barker. Because Sophie had been self-employed for years now and had no insurance coverage of her own, the agency’s insurance plan was the only one their family had. And even after she had made plain that the accident had changed her opinion of Jason, that she needed him to move out, both realized that her physical condition and Max’s medical needs made divorce impractical. So they remained married but not a couple. Betrothed but apart. And while that wouldn’t necessarily change, other things had. Jason no longer needed Barker for a paycheck or health coverage. He’d be able to afford private insurance. And more. He could finally take care of his family. He could give Max what he needed most in life—as expensive as it was. And while he wasn’t naïve enough to think that anything would change with Sophie, that things could ever go back to the way they were, he was thrilled that he’d be able to give his son and the woman he still loved whatever they needed.

  He pulled over on the street parallel to Sophie’s. He’d walk through backyards and knock on the kitchen door again, as he’d done last night.

  “I gotta go, Ben. I’m at Sophie’s. I’m gonna tell her about all of this. Let her know we’ll be okay.”

  “Enjoy that moment. And make sure the Wicked Witch of the West hears, too.”

  Janice answered the back door without warmth but also without attitude, which Jason considered a good compromise. He removed his shoes and found Max and Sophie in the living room working on a puzzle. They were less than halfway finished, but he could tell it was going to be an underwater scene. They’d already completed a sea turtle and a stingray.

  Jason sat on the floor next to his son, who was kneeling beside the coffee table, a puzzle piece in each hand, staring intently at the incomplete picture before him.

  “Hey, Max,” Jason said.

  The boy—who hadn’t seen Jason since his harrowing experience—looked up and, as he so often did, gave his father the sweetest smile.

  “Daddy!”

  He threw his arms around Jason’s neck, squeezed briefly, then leaned away, put the puzzle pieces carefully on the table, and hugged him again, squeezing harder and for longer before releasing his hold. Jason felt tears threatening.

  “How you been, buddy?” he asked.

  “I been okay.” It wasn’t always easy to understand Max. His Down syndrome contributed to unclear diction. But where others might have difficulty, Jason understood every word. “You were gone,” Max added.

  “Just for a while. But I’m back.”

  “Mommy was sad.”

  Jason resisted the urge to look over at Sophie.

  “No way. We don’t do sadness. Happiness is what we do around here, right?”

  “Not always.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t always do happy here.” He picked up his puzzle pieces and focused on the puzzle again.

  Jason glanced at Sophie, who frowned slightly, as though she hadn’t heard Max say anything like this before.

  “Mommy doesn’t draw anymore. She used to be happy when she did that. But she put away her easel thing. It’s downstairs.”

  “Her easel’s in the basement?” Jason didn’t like hearing that. Sophie had always liked to sketch. She’d never tried to sell anything, didn’t think she was good enough—though Jason honestly disagreed—but she didn’t care. She just loved to draw, and for years, her easel had been a fixture in her life.

  He loved her sketches. Looking at them allowed him to see the world through her eyes. She always added some surprising, interesting detail, something someone else might not notice when looking at the same scene, or maybe something that wasn’t even really there. A bird with ruffled feathers in the window. A crack in the glass on the table. A picture on the wall hanging slightly askew in the background. Her drawings were wonderful. And those of Max were her best. That she was no longer drawing was profoundly sad to him.

  “She says she doesn’t feel like it lately,” Max said.

  Jason turned to Sophie. “Since when?” Since we separated?

  She shrugged. “I stopped five months ago.”

  Right around the time of Max’s diagnosis.

  “Well, Max,” Jason said, “things are pretty good here for the most part, aren’t they? Lots of reasons to be happy. You’ve got your mom, and your toys, and . . . your grandmother.”

  “Not you. You should be here, too.”

  A tiny jab to his heart. Little more than a poke, but it stung. He had to admit to himself, though, that it felt a little good to know that he was missed. This was the first time Max had hinted that he wished his father were around more, and it both pleased and saddened Jason.

  “I’ll try to come around more often, okay? How does that sound?”

  Max was trying to fit a puzzle piece into a spot where it clearly didn’t belong, turning it several times and trying again and again, and Jason suspected that Sophie had done most of the work on this one. He smiled as his son worked at it, getting nowhere but showing no frustration. Simply enjoying himself. Eventually, he put the piece down and chose another.

  Jason gave a quick rub to Max’s close-cropped hair—strawberry blond, like his father’s—and moved over to the sofa.

  “I have some news,” he said.

  She rolled herself closer. “Good or bad?”

  “Good, for a change.” He smiled. “Really good.”

  He told her about the book deal, and the movie deals, and the television interview, and the money he was being offered for all of it, and about how they’d be able to afford the best care for Max now, and, in general, how much better their lives were going to be.

  “The best care?” she said. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  Three specialists had given them a bleak prognosis for Max because of aHUS, his blood disease, which could damage vital organs like the kidneys, heart, and brain. Max was very possibly facing a future of dialysis and even kidney transplants, both of which might address damage caused by the disease, but neither of which would actually treat or cure the underlying disease itself. Moreover, aHUS presented Max with a substantial risk of pulmonary issues, as well as neurological and cardiovascular problems. It was only two years ago that the FDA approved a drug called Solizen, which had proven in extensive clinical trials to be effective in treating those afflicted with aHUS, reducing clotting issues, improving kidney function, and dramatically improving their quality of life. But no insurance company in the United States yet covered the medication, which currently cost patients more than $200,000 per year. The hope was that the cost of the drug would decrease over time, and that insurance companies would eventually agree to cover it, but that wouldn’t help people in the short term. And the disease could do a lot of damage—possibly even fatal damage—in the short term.

  Jason nodded. “We’ll be able to afford Solizen, at least for a few years. And if I can keep things going, for as long as necessary.”

  Sophie cried. She turned away from Max, not wanting him to see. Because he might not understand what Jason did . . . that they were the good kind of tears. Her hand found his and squeezed for the briefest of moments before pulling away. He smiled.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In all, they found six bodies buried in the woods behind Wallace Barton’s stable, raising the killer’s death toll to sixteen—that is, sixteen about which they knew. Each of the bodies had been wrapped in thick black plastic, which the medical examiner opened after photographs had been taken from every conceivable angle. Inside, the victims’ heads had been compl
etely covered with clear plastic wrap.

  No one working the scene in those woods—least of all Lamar Briggs—needed the ME to explain how the dead men had likely been murdered. Each of their skulls had been caved in by a blunt object. Neither was someone with extensive medical training needed to explain how the victims had suffered, because limbs were bent at unnatural angles and a few jagged bones actually protruded through skin. And, of course, no one needed to be told who had killed these men.

  “Eleanor?” Briggs said, addressing the medical examiner, whom he knew didn’t like being called by her first name. He couldn’t pronounce her last name well, though—it was something long and Hispanic—so he’d decided a few years ago to stick to Eleanor, and she no longer bothered to correct him. “Any idea how long these guys have been here?”

  The ME stood, wiping the dirt from her hands on her blue jeans. She was attractive—dark hair pulled into a ponytail, pleasant face, slender figure—and if he were twenty years younger, he thought he might have had a shot with her. He’d had only three relatively brief affairs in more than forty years of marriage, and he didn’t regret any of them, but the sneaking around was a pain in the ass. He thought Eleanor probably would have been worth it, though.

  “Best guess?” she said. “One to two years. I’ll be more certain when I’ve had the chance to examine them more thoroughly.”

  “Anything else you can tell me now?”

  “See the holes in their skulls? All those broken bones? They pretty much tell the story.”