The Lonely Mile(53)
Bill smiled uneasily. Valuable time was passing and all of this gamesmanship was wasting too much of it. He was tempted to simply rip the paper out from under the farmer’s hand and leave with it—that’s exactly what he would do if it became necessary; he certainly wasn’t leaving this office without the address of the man holding Carli—but he had come this far, so he decided to play along just a little longer and see where it led.
“Of course not,” he said. “Me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong was what resulted in this whole mess in the first place. Once I have the man’s name and address, I’m going to bring that information straight to the lead investigator, FBI Special Agent Angela Canfield.”
“How sure are you that the man who purchased my truck is the man you’re looking for?”
“Well I can’t be one hundred percent certain. After all, maybe the man who bought your truck resold it or maybe it was stolen some time afterward by the killer, but it’s a solid lead and it’s something that absolutely must be followed up on, and the sooner the better.”
“By the FBI.”
“Absolutely. By the FBI.”
Ray Blanchard waited a long moment, again sizing up Bill, giving him an appraising look. Then he stood and said, “Follow me.” He squeezed past Bill and out the office door, turning left and opening a bigger door that led into the massive warehouse connected to the loading dock Bill had seen when he first arrived. Standing in one corner was a copy machine. Blanchard fired it up and ran off a copy of the bill of sale for his old truck, which he then handed to Bill. “Good luck,” he said, “I’ll be praying for your daughter’s safety.”
“Thank you, you may have just saved her life,” Bill answered with a confidence he wished he really felt. “I’ve really got to be going. Every second’s delay in finding her could mean the difference between life and death. Thanks again.” He hustled back into the store, turning in the open doorway and looking back. “By the way, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Yes?”
“Tell all your friends to pray, too.”
The store owner nodded, and Bill hustled through the market, weaving his way around customers, past the register at the front door, and into the heavy, humid air of the parking lot.
***
As the girl’s father drove away, Ray Blanchard watched through his small office window, drumming his fingers on the desk in front of his computer keyboard. Then, frowning, he reached for the telephone on the edge of the desk.
CHAPTER 45
May 28, 3:05 p.m.
BILL LOOKED AT THE information printed on his copy of the bill of sale and noted immediately the address of the truck’s purchaser, a man named Martin Krall. Krall lived in a small town called Mason, New York, located no more than thirty minutes away—or at least he had when he purchased the vehicle. Assuming this man, Martin Krall, was, in fact, the I-90 Killer, there was every possibility Carli was at this moment just a short, half-hour drive from here. He prayed she was still alive.
And chances were good that this Martin Krall guy who bought the truck was the kidnapper—the pieces fit together perfectly. Blanchard had sold the vehicle roughly three-and-a-half years ago. It was currently late May, 2012 , and the first victim—at least the first one who had come to the attention of the police—was kidnapped and subsequently murdered just before Christmas, 2008 . Three and a half years ago.
Bill had seen the I-90 Killer, clear as day, in the rest stop, while he used Allie as a human shield, then again, driving the box truck out of the parking lot there. Assuming he tried to keep to his routine as much as possible when snatching his victims—and one thing the criminal profilers all seemed to agree upon was that he was a creature of habit—that would mean Blanchard had sold the truck at virtually the exact time the kidnapping/murder spree had begun.
Bill shivered. This was the guy. He could feel it.
He felt badly about lying to Ray Blanchard and telling the man he would bring the bill of sale directly to the FBI, especially after the farmer had shown faith in him by giving him a copy of it in the first place. By all rights, Blanchard should have called the cops or the FBI right from his desk while Bill sat in his office. And he was probably right. The FBI should be more adept at dealing with a dangerous and unstable serial kidnapper/murderer than the owner of two floundering hardware stores living in a ratty apartment after the dissolution of a failed marriage.
But time was running out and they didn’t have any leads on him after three-and-a-half years, so what good were they, really? Dammit, Carli was his child, and he was going to get her back. Period.
He raced down the back roads to the nearer of his two hardware stores. He had some quick shopping to so before rescuing his child. Above his head, the clouds continued to roil, black and threatening, building to what was clearly going to be an impressive explosion.
CHAPTER 46
May 28, 3:08 p.m.
WHEN THE CALL CAME in, Angela Canfield swore in frustration. Her team was busy scouring the home and property of the murdered bus driver, Leona Bengston, desperately searching for evidence without having any idea what that evidence might be. It was tedious work, repetitive and boring, almost like searching for a needle in a haystack, except without knowing it was a needle you were looking for until you found it.
Without a single promising lead as to the Ferguson girl’s whereabouts, however, it was the most obvious option, Canfield thought. Go back to the beginning of the latest abduction and work the scene. Keep busy. Stay focused. Try to make a break. Given all she knew about the I-90 Killer and his history, she knew what she would find—nothing useful—but until something better came along, it made the most sense and was, therefore, what she would do.