Walk the Wire (Amos Decker #6)(33)

“How much farther?” asked Decker.

“It’s right up ahead, on the left.”

They rounded a curve and a modest ranch house came into view. An old and battered gray pickup truck was parked outside.

“Parker have any family?” asked Jamison.

“No. His wife died. His kids are grown and gone.”

As they climbed out of the SUV Decker glanced down at the bumper sticker on the rear of Parker’s truck.

GUN CONTROL MEANS USING BOTH HANDS.

Kelly led the way up the plank steps.

The front door was standing partially open. Seeing that, all three instinctively pulled their weapons.

Kelly called out through the opening, “Hal? It’s Joe Kelly. You in there? You okay? We want to ask you some questions.”

There were sounds coming from inside but they were unintelligible.

“Hal? You okay?” Kelly cried out again. He looked at Decker. “What the hell is going on here?”

Decker looked at him. “Your call. Do we go in?”

“You bet we do.” Kelly took the lead, pushed the door fully open with the palm of his free hand, and they all charged inside.

The front room was plainly furnished with a Remington shotgun and Winchester rifle on a rack on one wall and two fishing rods leaning in a corner. An open beer can was on a table next to a recliner. But there was no sign of Parker.

“Hal?” called out Kelly again.

Decker took in the space, top to bottom, left to right. It looked like Parker had just stood and walked out of the room. The TV was still on. Those were obviously the sounds they had heard.

On one wall was a series of photos. Decker ran his gaze over each of them. They were pictures of Parker and members of various hunting parties next to the carcasses of large, dead animals.

“That’s Shane in that one,” said Decker.

Kelly nodded. “Yeah, they hunt a lot together. I’m in that one over there. Got an eight-point buck on that trip,” he added, indicating another photo. He looked around. “I don’t like this one bit. He wouldn’t leave his door open like that.”

“Does he have a vehicle other than the truck?” asked Jamison.

“He has an ATV. Keeps it in the shed out back.”

They quickly searched the house including the small bedroom but found no one there.

“Bed is still made,” noted Kelly.

Decker walked back into the front room and touched the beer on the table. “Warm. Would he be drinking during the day?”

“Not the Hal Parker I know.”

Decker went into the kitchen, slapped on a pair of latex gloves he’d pulled from his pocket, and opened the dishwasher. There was one plate, a set of utensils, and a water glass inside. He eyed Jamison, who had followed him. “Dinner last night. Beer while watching the TV. Whatever happened, I think it took place last night.”

Next, he eyed the two wineglasses and a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. “One beer can but two wineglasses. How does that figure in?”

“Somebody showed up while he was drinking beer and watching TV, maybe?” speculated Kelly. “They crack open some wine and drink it. Then either that person takes Hal, or somebody else comes in here and takes him and the other person. But I don’t know who that could be.”

“He have any enemies?” asked Jamison.

“Never heard anyone say a word against him. Everybody liked Hal.”

“Let’s check the shed,” said Decker.

They trooped outside to the small plank shed. It had an overhead garage door that wasn’t locked. With his latex gloves still on, Decker carefully lifted the door and it rolled up on well-oiled tracks while the other two stood ready, their guns pointed at the emerging opening ready for whatever might be revealed.

There was a Honda ATV parked right inside the small space.

Decker had half expected to see the body of Hal Parker in here.

Parker wasn’t inside.

But another dead body was.

She was on the ATV, lying forward on her front side so her torso and head were resting against the handlebars with her legs splayed out behind her. She was dressed in a short tight skirt, a low-cut body-hugging midriff top, thigh-high black stockings, and spiky shoes.

On the right side of the woman’s head was a bloody hole where a bullet had ended her life.

They all just stared at the body for a few moments.

“She’s young, looks to be in her early twenties,” noted Decker as he gazed at the body. He glanced at Kelly. “Do you know who she is?”

Kelly nodded, looking grim. “She’s Pamela Ames, Susan and Milton’s oldest daughter, from the Colony.”

“But she’s not dressed like the other women there,” pointed out Jamison. “She’s dressed, well, pretty alluringly.”

“And I wonder why,” said Decker.





AS DECKER STARED ACROSS the width of the London Police Station’s main room, he had a sense of déjà vu, and for a horrible reason. Milton and Susan Ames were sitting in two straight-back chairs after having been told of the murder of their daughter and having viewed and identified her remains at the funeral home.

Years ago, Decker had found the bodies of his wife, daughter, and brother-in-law in their home in Burlington, Ohio. He had called the cops and then sat on the bathroom floor staring at his daughter. Molly Decker had been bound to the toilet using the belt of her bathrobe after her killer had used that very same belt to strangle her to death. Decker had sat there with his service pistol in hand. He had finally stuck it into his mouth and was seriously contemplating eating a round and dying with them. But something, he wasn’t exactly sure what, had stopped him.