Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4: The Starlight Drive-In
I pushed the Explorer to ninety-five miles an hour down Route 4. The rusting, massive white screen of the Starlight Drive-In loomed over the tree line like a dead monument. I tore through the rusted chain-link gates and hit the brakes.
The white van sat exactly in the center of the desolate, sun-baked lot. The engine was pinging loudly, cooling down in the intense heat.
Sergeant Miller was standing near the rear bumper, holding an M4 carbine. “He’s gone. Dog unit is ten minutes out, but he walked right off into the brush.”
I walked slowly to the open driver’s door. The interior was an oven, smelling of cheap cigarettes and melting plastic. In the back cargo area lay three more unopened boxes of heavy-duty black contractor bags, a rusted dirt shovel, and logging chains.
I turned my attention to the front seats. Placed perfectly in the dead center of the steering wheel, held down by a single piece of bright red electrical tape, was one final Polaroid photograph.
I peeled it back and lifted it into the blinding sunlight.
It was not a picture of me sleeping. It was a picture of a beautiful, two-story house with blue siding and a distinct, heavy red front door.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless, freezing void. It was my ex-wife’s house. It was Sarah’s house, on the exact opposite side of town.
I flipped the photo over. Written in thick, black Sharpie ink at the bottom of the white border was a fresh timestamp: 14:30. She left the back door unlocked.
I whipped my head around to look at the digital clock glowing on the van’s dashboard radio display. The green numbers read 14:42.
The man hadn’t run into the woods to hide. He had dumped the van twelve minutes ago, and he was already inside her house.
I did not wait for Miller or the dog unit. I sprinted back to my cruiser, threw it into reverse, and floored the accelerator.
Sarah’s house was four and a half miles away. My sirens were screaming, but I couldn’t hear them over the rush of blood hammering in my ears. The original frame job had fallen apart because I saved the kids too quickly. So he pivoted. He went straight for the only person in the world I still cared about.
“Dispatch, Unit 42,” I yelled into my mic. “I am en route to 818 Willow Branch Lane. Suspect from the I-80 kidnapping is on site. Send every available unit right now. Shut sirens down a mile out.”
Sarah and I had been divorced for two years. The split was a slow, agonizing erosion caused by the ghost of that burning minivan. I stopped sleeping. I pushed her away to protect her from my darkness. Now, that darkness had literally walked through her back door.
I turned onto her quiet, tree-lined street, killing my lights and sirens. I coasted the cruiser to a stop three houses down. I unclipped my seatbelt, drew my Glock 22, and stepped out onto the blistering concrete.
I slipped through the wooden side-gate of her property. The heavy wooden door leading into the mudroom was cracked open exactly two inches.
I raised my weapon, sweeping the mudroom as I stepped inside. The house smelled of vanilla candles and jasmine tea. On the kitchen island, her leather purse sat next to a half-eaten salad and a glass of ice water. She had been eating lunch when he walked in.
“David.”
May you like
The voice came from the living room, just beyond the dividing archway. It was a man’s voice—raspy, slow, and completely stripped of panic.
“I know you’re in the hallway, David. The floorboard by the mudroom squeaks. I mapped this house three weeks ago.”
