The Lonely Mile(51)

Now that Bill could clearly picture the vehicle, the sixty-four thousand dollar question was this: had the owner of Specialty Farmers Market sold the truck to the I-90 Killer himself, or had he involved a middleman—such as a dealer—from whom the kidnapper had purchased his vehicle?

There was one way to find out.

*

In addition to trucking their produce to various area locations, Specialty Farmers Market operated an independent store, in which they offered their own products for sale, as well as basic grocery staples, like bread and milk. The market was housed in a long, rectangular-shaped rustic log building that looked like a cross between an ice arena and a steroid-enhanced version of Abraham Lincoln’s boyhood home. A mammoth concrete and aluminum warehouse protruded out the rear of the store, angling away to the left, with a paved employee parking lot located at the rear of the property.

Bill had never been inside Specialty Farmers Market, but he had driven past it once or twice, so he knew where it was. He figured it was as good a place as any to begin the process of tracking down the company’s owner.

He was well aware that his first move should be to alert Agent Canfield to the potentially critical piece of information he had recovered. He also knew he was going to do no such thing. Bill had spent a lot of time thinking about the situation regarding the I-90 Killer since his meeting with the FBI agent at the coffee shop this morning, and the more he kicked it around in his head, the more a surprising realization began to solidify.

He was going to rescue Carli himself. Forget the authorities.

This lunatic, this “I-90 Killer,” had targeted him specifically; setting his twisted sights on Bill Ferguson’s family solely because Bill had interfered with his attempt to kidnap an innocent girl at an interstate rest stop. He had taunted Bill, approaching his daughter on the street and spelling out in a letter exactly what he intended to do with her, and then he had gone and done it, just a couple of days later.

The authorities, the same ones he was expected to now trust with the job of rescuing his child, had analyzed the letter after its delivery and concluded the I-90 Killer was full of crap, that he was boasting and bragging but would do nothing. Well, he had turned out not to be full of crap; he had done exactly what he said he was going to do. He had taken Carli, and right out from under the noses of the very people who were supposedly protecting her.

And now the FBI, in the form of Special Agent Angela Canfield, was telling him to do nothing; to hand over any information that might be helpful in the search for his daughter, and then to just stay out of the way. Let the professionals handle the search. For the man they had been hunting without success for nearly four years. With Carli’s life hanging in the balance.

No way. Bill didn’t care how sexy and alluring Angela Canfield was, he was not about to run to the phone and pass along the information he had finally managed to recover, and then step aside and wait for Canfield or one of her FBI flunkies to report back to him at their convenience the fate of his only child. The I-90 Killer had snatched Carli Ferguson for a reason; a reason above and beyond the fact that he was a perverted, murdering, slave-trading psycho. He had targeted Bill’s child. And Bill was going to get her back.

Or die trying.

*

May 28, 2:45 p.m.

Business was brisk at the retail home of Specialty Farmers Market, LLC. Cars filled the customer parking lot nearly to overflowing, and people entered and exited the front doors in a more or less continuous flow. Bill wondered what in the world the place could be selling that was so popular. It was too early in the season for most fresh veggies, but he supposed since the store was open year-round, they must offer some other enticing homemade food products, as well.

He hurried across the lot under slate-grey skies that had been threatening rain all day but had not yet followed through. The moisture in the air was so heavy and thick it felt almost as though the skies had already opened up, even though the rain had yet to begin falling. One massive storm was on the way and would be arriving later this afternoon; that much was clear.

Parked at the rear of the lot was a white box truck, with “Specialty Farmers Market” emblazoned on the side of the cargo area in green, block letters. The truck was similar in size and style to the repainted one he had watched the I-90 Killer escape in last week at the rest stop, only newer and less worn down. He glanced at it, confirming what he already knew, before continuing through the front entrance.

Bill walked into the store and approached the lone cash register, operated by a girl roughly Carli’s age. She was maybe fifteen pounds overweight, sporting jet-black hair with a maroon stripe dyed into the bangs, and wore a look of intense concentration as she dealt with the line of shoppers waiting to pay for their purchases.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping up to the counter. “Could you please tell me where I might find the manager?” The customer currently standing in front of the register, waiting while her purchases were being rung up, glared at him like he was planning on cutting the line. He ignored her. He doubted her daughter was being held captive by a homicidal maniac.

The cashier looked up at him defensively, as if he had just caught her with her hand in the till. Bill figured she must assume he wanted to talk to the manager because he had a complaint, maybe about her. “Straight ahead, all the way to the back of the store on the left,” she said testily before returning to her work.

Bill nodded his thanks, a waste of effort since she was no longer paying any attention to him. He weaved his way through the shoppers to the back of the building. A cold case filled with milk, a few different brands of juice and soda, and maybe the best selection of beer this side of the average college student’s dorm formed most of a back wall. To the left of the case, though, was an open doorway giving on to a short corridor. Halfway down the length of the corridor on the right was a unisex bathroom, and on the left, the manager’s office.