Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(12)

When Nevada had become sheriff, he had pulled his case file and for the first time had learned Pop had filed the trespassing complaint with Greene. His grandfather could be a hard-ass, but when Nevada had needed a home, the old man had stepped up.

Nevada clicked on his flashlight and strode into the barn. The crime scene tape strung six days ago had drooped, and gusts of wind had tipped over several evidence tents marking the locations of the bones.

He cast his light toward the centuries-old hand-hewed ladder and the hayloft. A year ago, he might have theorized Tobi’s death had been an accident. Kids explored a barn and one fell. No one spoke up because they were afraid.

But DNA linked three rapes to Tobi’s death. He needed the medical examiner’s confirmation, but he would bet a year’s salary she was murdered.

How did the killer get Tobi up a wooden ladder? Though it was in good shape, carrying an unconscious or unwilling girl would have been damn near impossible.

Had Tobi’s killer forced her at gun-or knifepoint? Or had she gone willingly, never realizing what awaited her? A young, naive girl was ripe for the picking.

Nevada climbed the ladder Dave Sherman had left behind. Sherman was anxious to dismantle the barn, but Nevada refused to release the scene until Macy saw it.

Nevada couldn’t straighten to his full height of six foot three inches in the loft and was forced to duck slightly as he moved toward the chute.

The forensic team had swept the loft, searching for any evidence that explained Tobi’s death. They had found a knotted strand of red rope among the scattered bones on the first floor but nothing in the loft. Not surprising. Fifteen years erased a lot of evidence.

He stared down the now-three-sided shaft. He theorized the girl had been murdered up here. Best guess, this killing hadn’t been planned, had maybe been his first. After the adrenaline had eased, the killer had panicked. He had needed to dispose of Tobi, so he had tossed her pack and small body down the chute to avoid the ladder. Maybe the plan had been to take her somewhere else and bury her.

But the pack had wedged between the wooden walls, and the body hadn’t jostled it free. They had both gotten stuck.

Nevada walked toward the small window overlooking the valley behind the barn. This structure was off the beaten path, and he recalled the winter of 2004 had been bitterly cold. Her body wouldn’t have decomposed immediately, and anyone searching the barn wouldn’t have smelled death. No one had thought to look in the chute.

Had the killer panicked when Tobi’s body had jammed up? Had he worried when the volunteers combed the countryside? Had he been grateful for the cold? Had he returned to the barn?

Killing altered a person’s behavior. And Nevada hoped someone had noticed.





CHAPTER SIX

Monday, November 18, 1:00 p.m.

Vivid blue sky, white clouds, and golden fall leaves blanketed the Blue Ridge and Allegheny mountains and created a picture-perfect day in the valley. In Macy’s book, the beauty was wasted. If she had God’s ear, today would have been cold, overcast, and damp. Save the pretty days until she caught this killer.

As she drove south down I-81, Macy mentally replayed her ten minutes of regional research. In the last couple of decades, the Shenandoah Valley’s population had ballooned thanks to a growing university, its proximity to Washington, DC, and a thriving tourism trade peddling vineyards, Civil War battlefields, and railroad museums. Filling in the economic gaps were warehouse distribution centers, chain hotels, and strip malls.

The voice of Macy’s GPS cut through AC/DC’s Back in Black blasting from her playlist and instructed her to take the upcoming exit toward Deep Run. As she rolled onto Route 250, a sign for her go-to fast-food eatery gave her an excuse to stretch her legs before driving the remaining ten miles to the crime scene.

After parking, she gingerly rose up out of the car. Her leg bitched and moaned. Stretches weren’t optional any more. She grabbed her ankle and pulled until the bunched muscles in her thigh released. After a quick walk around the lot, she made a beeline for the restaurant bathroom.

She glanced into the mirror as she washed her hands. Even after five months, she still didn’t recognize the woman with the short hair and thin face.

Nevada was in for a rude awakening.

She wiped her face with a paper towel. “Macy Crow, you’re aboveground and headed in the right direction. That’s what counts.”

At the counter, she ordered a supersize bucket of fries and a large soda. It wasn’t that she loved the food—okay, maybe she did love the fries—but the chain restaurant’s predictability and sameness were comforting after so many life changes.

A few fries later, she was in her car and backing out of her space when her phone rang. Nevada’s number appeared. She cleared her throat and sat a little taller.

“Agent Macy Crow,” she said.

“Ramsey tells me you’re on your way. Where are you?”

He was direct and rarely charming, and she always knew where she stood with him. “Fifteen minutes from the barn.”

“I’m here now.”

“See you soon,” she said.

Their transition back into a working relationship looked like it was going to be effortless. Whatever they’d had personally was over and done. No hard feelings.

En route on the interstate, she ate her fries and drained her soda. There were no guarantees on when the next meal would be.