Readers’ Favorite gave CACHE a PREDATOR five-stars. “I highly recommend this book to any readers who are looking for a new, excellent crime novel that is heartrending and thought-provoking.“

Officer Brett Reed will do anything to gain custody of his five-year-old daughter, Quinn. But when a judge grants Brett’s drug-addicted ex-wife custody and slaps him with a protective order for losing his temper, he fears for Quinn’s safety. Who will protect her now?

When Quinn is found abandoned on the streets, the child is placed in a temporary foster home until Child Protective Services can complete an assessment. It should only take a few days.

But a lot can happen in a few days.

Especially when there’s a deranged psychopath on the loose, someone who’s attacking pedophiles, someone who wants to protect children like Quinn, and someone who’s planting body parts in geocaching sites.

Cache a Predator is a novel about a father’s love, justice, and the unhinged game of hide-the-cache.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter One

 

Death was like a low-pressure system. It could occur in any season, causing storms in people so great it changed them. I saw it happen to Father when Mom died years ago.

It happened to me several weeks ago. Death caused a tornado that swirled in my head, making me braver than I’d ever been. It scared me because I had to leave my house to do something, in the dark. I didn’t want to, but I needed to prove that I was not a coward or a freak.

I clamped my teeth together and stomped my foot. I would not be called a sissy anymore. I’d show everyone. People would finally like me. And maybe they would thank me.

I dressed for the first job in black pants, a hoodie, and latex gloves, then paced in my doorway. Did I forget anything? No. I tapped my backpack and closed my eyes, picturing my supplies. The scalpel, syringes, needles, rubber bands, and baggies were in place. I counted, one, two, three, four. Yep, they were all there, each in their spot. I glanced across the room. Yes, I’d put the surgical books back on the shelf in alphabetical order.

The video played in my head, over and over again. Slice, mutilate.

Go, just go!

My heart beat fast like the train rolling on the tracks in the distance. It was just before midnight. I climbed into my truck and headed for Sheridan Street across town, past the sign “Welcome to Hursey Lake, Indiana.” After parking, I entered the graveyard exactly where I’d planned. Streetlights threw shadows onto the tombstones.

Hurry and get it done. Then you can play hide-the-cache.

My heart jumped like a ball in a gaming machine. It was the storm.

I kept my head down and hitched over the short iron fence, summer’s humidity following me in rivulets of perspiration down my back. The sky’s moon hid behind thick clouds, making it dark, but I’d memorized the map.

My feet shuffled in rhythm on the pavement, past the markers for Sarah Jane Miller, Jerome Streeter, Mabel Hudson, and so many others. I counted their stones as I passed them. There were 989 dead people present.

A dim light illuminated the mausoleum at the east end of the park, guiding me, like a spotlight on a stage. I moved toward the light.

Large tombstone shadows hovered over the smaller ones. Some stones were made of marble, but others were smaller, chipped, and decorated with flowers that had faded from the sun. The way they were lined in rows, with husbands and wives side by side and children lying near their parents, made it look like a village, like shadows of square people hiding and watching without emotion. Like me.

They were my audience. They wouldn’t make me look them in the eye.

Overgrown red petunias crept over the edges of the sidewalk, and the smell of cut grass lingered in the air.

The windowed door to the mausoleum was locked. I dropped my shoulder and slid the bag off my back. After unzipping it, I reached in for the picklock. It dangled from its circular key chain, clinking as the metal brushed against the other keys. I picked at the lock. The first one was too big. My breathing quickened, and I could feel the blood pumping in my neck. I tried the next. And the next. Finally, the fourth one fit. Open, open. I twisted and turned the lock.

Score. Dr. Spear had taught me that word.

I slipped inside. My adrenaline raced. The body was so close. After closing the door, I clicked on my headband flashlight. Shadows danced across the tile floor and the granite-faced crypts as I moved my head from side to side.

I paused, rocking back and forth, remembering that night. I was eight and hiding in the toolshed. It had been dark, and the dirt floor smelled like cat pee. He was after me. My legs ached from being cramped for so long. He waved a flashlight back and forth across the floor behind old boards and tools. The light stopped on my foot. “I see you! Get the hell out of there, or I’m coming in after you, you chicken shit.”

Stop rocking! Take deep breaths like Doc Spear showed you. Concentrate on the job. That was another time. You’re in control now.

Yes, I was in control.

The room was clean and smelled of floor wax. Square-faced crypts lined two walls. The one in the center, two drawers from the top, was the one I needed. It was him.

After setting the backpack on the floor, I hurried to the closet at the far end of the room and wheeled out the hydraulic lift. Its wheels squeaked and rattled across the floor like they had when they’d put him in.

Kneeling in front of the crypt, I dug through my backpack until I found the rolled towel. Inside was the rosette key, the #22 retractable scalpel, a plastic bag for the body part, and the casket key. I reached for the rosette key first and poked the tool into the holes of the granite face until they clicked. One by one, I unlocked all four bolts and placed the supplies on the towel in front of the crypt.

Gripping the edges of the granite, I pulled the heavy stone out, sweat beads creeping down my temples. After maneuvering the block onto the towel, I slid it across the floor and out of the way.

As I positioned the lift, I rehearsed my steps: slice and save. No need to tourniquet this one, no vascular pressure. The movie played in my head over and over again. Fast forward, Rewind. Slice and save.

This would be better than when I put dog poo in his dinner, and spat in his coffee thermos. Taking a hold of the casket’s end, I rolled the wooden coffin toward me, out of the chute, and onto the lift. As it rolled toward me, my heartbeat drummed louder in my ears. The box slid over the scattered BBs rolling in the bottom of the drawer, clattering.

A car’s horn honked far in the distance. I glanced out into the cemetery, skimming the grounds. The dead slept. The voice in my head shouted.

Do it!

Moving back to the towel, I gathered the casket key, the scalpel, and the bag and faced the front of the coffin, placing the tools at my feet. I was ready to open the lid. I paused. What would he look like?

What did it matter? What was I waiting for?

One square hole was positioned at each end. I reached for the casket crank and inserted it into the left hole and turned, then the right.

Hopefully his eyes would be closed. If they were open I’d stare at his forehead—like I had before.

I lifted the top half first. The lid squeaked. My heart thumped tight. Holding my breath, I took one quick look, and dropped the lid.

Thud!

My stomach lurched. A white furry mold had grown over his graying skin. He was uglier than before. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red striped tie. His hands rested on his middle, holding a rosary. What a joke.

Too bad he couldn’t watch me now.

Don’t look at his face.

My eyelid twitched as I lifted the lid again and set the corner hinge to a locked position. Then I lifted the bottom half of the casket, avoiding his eyes, and set the lock there too.

When I unfastened the belt around his trousers, the belt buckle clinked and my fingers trembled. Clumsily, I undid the button at the top. Stooping over him, I yanked his pants down to his thighs, exposing his nakedness. I bounced on my toes and laughed. Loud. My heart thumped in my ears, keeping rhythm. He was shriveled. I clapped and laughed again, the deep sound muffling off the room’s walls.

I reached for the scalpel and the bag and deployed the blade, lifted his dick, and sliced with one quick movement. Aaaargh.

In one fluid motion it was gone and in my gloved hand. My head spun like when I twirled in circles. I felt light, almost numb.

All he had left was a stub.

I giggled like a child and held the flesh up for the tombstone people to see. “Look!”

With a smile, I placed it in the bag and pinched my fingers along the top, sealing it shut.

After retracting the blade, I set it on the towel, opened the backpack, and took out the sealed container. I placed the plastic bag inside, secured the lid, and placed it in the backpack.

Laughing, I moved back to the body, pulled up his pants, buttoned the top, and fastened his belt. The laugh started low in my belly and escalated into a high-pitched wail as memories of him touching me, damaging me, came flooding back. Years of pent up anger boiled inside me. He’d dragged me out of the toolshed and into the house. I’d kicked and curled into a ball, but still he came at me.

Now, grunting, I balled my hands into fists and beat his chest.

Thud.

Again.

Thud. Again and again until my fists burned. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, then released the hinges of the casket and dropped each lid with a bang, suddenly in a hurry.

Who’s the big man now?

After locking the coffin, I rolled it back into place, slid the granite face across the floor and lifted it to the opening. The anger gave me strength.

The casket clanked and clattered back into place. I scooped the rosette key from the towel and refastened the hardware. An opera sang in my head, the singers’ voices getting louder and louder, keeping rhythm with my heartbeat.

Gathering my supplies, I put everything back into their place in the backpack, wheeled the lift back into the closet, took out the antibacterial wipes in my bag, and wiped down the floor. I flung the pack over my shoulder and onto my back, then glanced around the room. No mess.

Once outside, I shone the flashlight on the lock and left it the same way I found it.

When that was complete, I flipped my flashlight off and began my trek to the cache site, counting the rows and stones. The drums of the concert played their final beats, and my mind went quiet. I glanced at my watch. I was on time.

There was much to do. I needed to keep to my schedule. I shuffled out of the cemetery, mumbling in rhythm. Find. The. Cache. Box. Bury. The. Stub. Find the cache box. Bury the stub. Find the cache box. Bury the stub.

#

The night’s darkness surrounded Jake as he stumbled up the porch stairs of his rented bungalow on Ditch Road in Hursey Lake. He mumbled under his breath. “Damn broken boards. Shit-ass landlord doesn’t fix a pissant thing.”

He reached out in front of him, waving his hand in the air, searching for the door handle. “Should have left the blasted light on.” His fingernail clinked on the metal knob. He turned it, murmuring under his breath, “At least I left the sucker unlocked.”

He pushed the door open, practically falling into the living room. After he flipped on the lights, he headed to the bathroom, relieved himself, then crossed the hall to his bedroom—a small room with one window. Beer bottles cluttered the dresser. Dirty clothes lay in heaps, scattered on the floor. Photos of naked girls flashed on his computer screen saver.

He chuckled. “Too drunk to get it up now.”

The room spun as he sat on the edge of the bed and bent to pull off his jeans. His foot caught in the pant leg. He kicked it and fell backward onto the pillow, laughing. Trying to focus, he pulled the other leg out and threw his jeans onto the floor. He closed his eyes, welcoming sleep’s abandon. It didn’t take long.

Sometime later, he stirred at a sound in the room, but his eyes, too heavy to open, remained shut. He didn’t care about the sound. It was probably his imagination. He allowed himself to drift again until something soft and damp fell onto his face, covering his eyes, nose, and mouth.

His eyes flew open. Who was there? But he couldn’t see the intruder. Gasping, he tried to sit, clawing at the hands of the attacker, struggling to rip the fabric from his face. But hands stronger than his held it in place. Sucking air, he breathed in the only thing he could—the cloth’s sweet sickly scent. Desperate for fresh air but finding none, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

When Jake finally woke, the light of a new day had trickled into his room, spilling its brightness across his face. But he didn’t notice. The searing, burning pain in his groin demanded all his attention. His hands groped between his legs. What the hell? Sticky blood covered his fingertips. Moaning, he turned his head and vomited on the pillow.

He tried to sit, blinking the blurriness out of his eyes. The room spun. He looked down.

His pecker was gone.

In its place was a short fleshy stub, the end clamped shut with knotted rubber strip. Blood had pooled around him, soaking the bedspread.

The walls of the room echoed with his screams before he passed out.

 

Chapter Two

 

No morning felt the same without Quinn tickling his ear, the breath of her tiny voice saying, “Wake up, Daddy.”

Brett stared at the ceiling. A leaky faucet dripped, gnawing at his nerves. He needed to get up and get going, but without his daughter, he dawdled. It was like the air didn’t move. The empty apartment reminded him of how alone he was and how unfair the courts had been.

What kind of screwed-up justice system did he work for anyway? He knew the answer: a system that sided with mothers—even addict mothers.

He needed to let it go, but worry had a mind of its own. His fists clenched. Quinn wasn’t safe with Ali, but the judge only saw a hot-tempered man, not a drug-addicted mother. Of course he was ticked—what father wouldn’t be at a mother who neglected her child?

He dragged his body out of bed and into the shower, trying to scrub his negative thoughts away and wash them down the drain. After he towel-dried, he dressed in his uniform, stepped into his navy-colored pants, and tightened the belt around his waist to the next notch. Anxiety as a diet had a way of loosening a man’s pants. Guess I should have eaten the last piece of pizza last night. He buttoned his shirt, strapped on his belt holster, removed the gun from the locked drawer, and slid the firearm in place.

His phone rang, playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Quinn’s ring, the one he’d programmed to play whenever she called because she was his twinkling star.

He lunged for his cell on his bed and held it to his ear. “Quinn?”

“Daddy?” Her voice quivered. “I’m scared. Mommy won’t wake up.”

His heart raced as he willed his voice to stay calm. “Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Go lock the front door.” He slid into his socks, crossing the room in one sweep, fear squeezing his heart. At the closet, he slipped into his shoes, fumbling with the phone as he bent to tie the laces. Could he get to her in time or should he call 911?

“Okay.”

He could hear her breathing like she was moving to the door. In three steps, he dashed across the room to the kitchen and clutched his jacket hanging over the chair. He juggled the phone again as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, first one, then the other. “Sit next to Mommy, and I’ll be there soon. I’m going to my car now. I’m coming. Everything is going to be okay.”

But it wouldn’t. This had happened before, and it would happen again.

Once upon a time he would have called Child Protective Services, but not now. He couldn’t wait. They were overworked. It could take them up to seventy-two hours to investigate, and he didn’t trust anyone but himself. No one cared about Quinn the way he did.

He grabbed his keys off the counter and headed out his front door, still holding the phone to his ear. “Is Max with you?”

“He’s sniffing the garbage. I think he’s hungry.”

Blast it, Ali. She’d probably forgotten to feed him.

Brett climbed in his cruiser and reached for his sunglasses tucked in the visor. He talked to Quinn as he started the car. “You did good, calling me. I’m sure Mommy will get up soon, but I’ll come and fix you breakfast. Do you have eggs and milk in the fridge?”

He envisioned her feet pattering on the tile and thought he heard the refrigerator squeaking open. “Uh-huh.”

That’s a shock. But that was Ali—seemingly together in one way, but not in another.

Brett clicked on his flashers, ignoring the speed limit signs as he sped down Wooster Road. Ali’s house was on the other side of the highway, but close. Moments like that made him thankful Hursey Lake was a small town.

“I’ll be there soon. Don’t open the door for anyone except me, okay?” He turned the steering wheel with one hand and held the phone to his ear with the other.

“Okay, Daddy.”

Drivers pulled into the right lane and slowed when they saw him coming. After a few turns and red lights, he shut off his flashers and swung the car into the driveway next to Ali’s red beater and slammed the car into Park.

On his way to the front door, he scowled as he stomped over cigarette butts littering the concrete, the filters crunching beneath his feet. The lawn needed mowing, and the shrubs had grown spindly and wild. When he’d lived there he’d never let the house get that run-down. The screen door stood ajar, the bottom bent at an angle, not allowing it to close properly. It squeaked in a faint breeze. The landlord had never been good about fixing things.

As he fumbled for the right key, he sucked in a deep breath. Keep your temper. He wasn’t supposed to be here, but keeping Quinn safe was worth violating the protective order. Besides, Ali had lied. He’d never hit her. Her brother was the one who’d pushed her to lie. And the judge had believed her—not Brett.

Max barked on the other side of the door. “Quinn, it’s Daddy.” He turned the key and pushed open the door. At least Ali hadn’t changed the locks.

Quinn stood before him in bare feet, wearing a pink T-shirt and purple shorts, holding her stuffed lamb she called Lambie under her arm. Her dark curls hung over her dirty face, tear streaks leaving a line of clean skin. Snot dripped from her nose.

He knelt in front of her, scooped her into his arms, and held her to his chest, breathing in her sweet smell, not wanting to let her go. He kissed her cheeks. “Shhh, I’m here now.”

Quinn hiccupped like she’d been crying hard. Her arms closed around his neck, almost choking him.

Brett’s throat grew tight, and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the rage bubbling inside him. How could Ali ignore her child?

Max’s tail thumped against the wall. Brett rested Quinn on one leg and nestled the dog’s face in his arms, rubbing his ears. Max whined in rhythm to his wagging tail.

“Where’s Mommy?”

“She’s on the couch.” Quinn pointed to their right. Garbage-filled bags sat on the floor along the wall outside the kitchen, smelling like Max had crapped nearby.

Brett dodged the trash and stomped into the living room. Ali lay on the sofa on top of a pile of clothes, her dyed blond hair covering her face. He crossed the room to her, gritting his teeth. “Ali, wake up.”

She didn’t flinch. His heartbeat raced, suddenly panicked. Was she unconscious? No, this had happened before. But still, was this the one time she wouldn’t wake?

Her chest rose and fell. He exhaled, relieved. At least she was breathing. He shook her shoulders and spoke louder. “Ali, wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, seeming unable to focus. “What are you doing here?” she slurred.

The smell of liquor oozed from her pores. This was an apt mother? He wanted to punch the wall at the injustice of the court system. Easy. “Quinn called and said she couldn’t wake you.”

Ali pushed herself to a sitting position, her head bobbing. “I’m awake.” But her eyes closed again.

“Maybe I should take Quinn to day care on my way to work.”

Ali snorted. “Oh, now you’re trying to do me favors?”

No, I’m trying to keep Quinn safe.

Ali folded her arms across her chest, but a few seconds later they fell limp to her sides, her eyes still closed. “She can’t go there anymore.”

Brett’s heart sank. “Why not?”

She waved her hand. “Some stupid rule about being late to pick her up.”

Ali loved to blame others. Nothing was ever her fault. But he didn’t say that now, not in front of Quinn. He turned to his daughter. “Go wash your hands and face before I make you breakfast.”

Quinn nodded, turning toward the bathroom.

Brett lowered his voice and spoke to Ali. “What are you going to do with Quinn when you go to work?”

She shrugged.

“You lost your job again, didn’t you?” His fury spiked.

He waited for her to answer, hoping he could stay calm. When she leaned her head against the sofa, he knew. She wasn’t going to answer him. She’d lost her job.

He used to pity her, but not anymore. Now, all he wanted was to get custody of Quinn. Maybe now the courts would rule in his favor, and he could prove Ali inept. She had no job and was under the influence of who knew what.

Quinn moved to his side, smelling like mint from the toothpaste. “Daddy, can I go with you today?” She placed her hand on his arm.

“I have to go to work, sweetie.” He reached for a tissue on the end table, wiped her nose and her bottom lip where she’d missed a dab of toothpaste. Then he lifted her in his arms, spun her around, and sat in the recliner across from the sofa. She giggled as she tumbled into his lap.

“I have to get the bad guys, remember? But I’ll come back for lunch.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You hungry?”

She nodded.

“I’ll make you breakfast.” He lifted her, then placed her on the floor in front of the TV and turned the channel to iCarly. “I’ll be right back.” Before he left the room, she hugged Lambie and watched TV, seeming consoled.

He glanced over his shoulder at Ali on the sofa. She wasn’t moving. Of course. She’d slid down, flat on her back, her mouth gaping open, snoring. How was he going to sober her up?

Entering the kitchen, he stared at the dirty dishes, cigarette butts, and beer cans covering the counter and the sink top. What a mess! The only time the kitchen had been clean when they’d been together was when he’d cleaned it. Dirt was invisible to Ali.

He clenched his jaw, took a few eggs out of the fridge, and whisked them, beating them until they frothed over the sides of the bowl like the blood foaming in his veins. Oh, how he hated leaving Quinn in Ali’s care.

He checked his watch as he added the pancake batter. Fifteen minutes—that’s all he had.

He made one large pancake and two smaller ones. Opening cupboards, he searched for condiments and found a bag of mini chocolate chips balled in a corner. After pulling a few morsels out of the bag, he arranged them as eyes, a nose, and a mouth on the cakes.

The only cup he could find was a dirty one in the sink. He rinsed it, poured Quinn’s juice into it, and carried her breakfast into the living room. “Here you go, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“You’re right. I forgot you’re five now, so grown-up.” He kissed her cheek.

She glanced at the plate of pancakes and threw her arms around his neck, practically knocking over her juice. “You made Mickey.” She smiled, plucked the mouse’s chocolate eyes off the cake, and dropped them in her mouth.

Her brow furrowed and she pouted. “Don’t go, Daddy.” She clutched his hand.

“I have to. I wish I didn’t.” Guilt slammed him in the gut, but what could he do? He’d told the judge about Ali’s behavior. It hadn’t mattered. She’d passed the drug tests.

Quinn glanced at Ali. “I’m scared.”

“Max is here, and Mommy is staying home with you today. I’m going to make her coffee so she wakes up.”

When the golden retriever heard his name, his ears perked and his head cocked to one side. The dog ambled over to Quinn and shoved his nose into her hand.

Thank goodness Quinn had Max. It wasn’t enough, but for now it would have to do. It was going to take time, but Brett was confident Ali would mess up and give him the evidence he needed to win custody.

Quinn giggled at Max and petted his ear. The dog licked her face and sniffed her pancakes.

She moved her plate away from him. “Okay, I’ll give you some, but you have to wait a minute.”

Brett stood, sweeping the dog hair off his pants. “Come on, Max. I’ll feed you, boy.”

Max padded after Brett into the kitchen. Brett found the bag of dog food, nearly gone, stashed on the floor of the pantry. He fed Max, filled his water bowl, and made a pot of coffee. When he returned to Ali, she was still sleeping. He clapped his hands together and the sound jolted Ali’s eyes open. “Wake up. I have to go to work. You’ve gotta get yourself together.”

She stared at him and took a deep breath. “Just go.”

“I’m coming back for lunch. I made a pot of coffee. Drink it.”

Her eyes crossed and she nodded.

Quinn rushed to his side, holding a pancake. “How many minutes will it take before you come back?” She broke off a piece of the cake and handed it to Max, who chomped the morsel in one bite.

“Lots of minutes, but only four hours. You can watch your shows, and before you know it I’ll be back.”

Should he ask Mr. Ray, the next-door neighbor, to check on her? No, that could backfire, especially if Mr. Ray reported Brett had been there, violating the protective order. It would be better to call every hour and come back for lunch.

Quinn pouted, and tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. “Will you check under my bed first?” She put her thumb in her mouth.

“Let’s go. I’ll scare the monsters away.” He growled like a bear, remembering when his father had done the same thing for him. Except, instead of chasing monsters, his dad had chased away dinosaurs.

Quinn giggled and put her sticky fingers in his hand, leading him to her bedroom.

When he saw how she’d made her bed—something he’d taught her to do—a lump formed in his throat. “Nice job.” A part of her comforter draped onto the floor, but he pretended not to notice.

He fell to his knees and said, “Hop on.”

Quinn giggled and climbed on his back.

“Hold tight. Here we go.” He galloped toward the bed, pretending he was a horse, and peered beneath the comforter. “Nothing there.” He moved to the closet on the other side of the room, neighing and bucking. Quinn giggled louder. He stopped in front of the closet and deepened his voice. “All monsters, begone!”

Quinn slid off Brett’s back and pushed the clothes to one side, tipping her head left and right. “They’re all gone. You did it.” She hopped on his back, and he galloped out to the living room.

Ali had opened her eyes.

Brett trotted next to her. “You up for the day?” If he didn’t go now he’d be docked pay, and he couldn’t lose his job if he had any hope of getting custody. He’d already missed more than he should have during the divorce.

Ali nodded. “I’m good. Go.”

Brett lingered. “You’re not going to start drinking again, are you?”

“Don’t worry about what I do or don’t do.”

“I have to worry. Quinn’s here. Don’t fall back to sleep.” He stood.

Ali reached for a cigarette and lit it.

He wanted to squash the package in his fist. How many times had he asked her not to smoke in front of Quinn?

Quinn latched onto Brett’s leg as he walked stiff-legged toward the door. He peeled her off and lifted her into his arms. Smoothing back her mop of curls that had fallen on her face, and staring into her deep blue eyes, he smiled. “I’ll be back. You be a good girl for Mommy, okay?”

She nodded, pouting. “I love you, Daddy.”

He took a deep breath. “I love you more.”

Swallowing the guilt, he told himself he’d done everything he could. Quinn was safe. For now.

After he shut the door and heard Quinn turn the dead bolt, he headed to his cruiser and felt his cell phone vibrate. He unclipped it from its buckle. The screen displayed his parents’ number. “Hi, Mom.” He opened the car door.

Silence.

Brett paused, then spoke again. “Mom?” He scooted into his car.

“Son?” It was his father.

Brett froze. His fingers trembled at his mixture of emotions. His blood pressure rose, but so did his hopes. “Yeah?” He shut the door.

“How are you?”

“You don’t call me for six years and then ask me how I’m doing? What do you really want, Dad?” He shouldn’t sound so harsh, but he didn’t trust his father’s intentions.

The old man didn’t answer right away. “I was wondering, uh, since your divorce is final now, uh, if you’d given any thought to going back, of going back . . . to school.”

“You don’t quit, do you? The real reason you’re calling is to rub my divorce in my face, isn’t it? You win—you were right. I was wrong. I never should have married Ali. Is that what you want me to say?”

“No, that’s—”

“No, I don’t want to go back to school, and I don’t want to talk to you.”  He hit the End key on his phone and flung it onto the passenger seat, instantly regretting his words. Tears threatened to sting his eyes. He shouldn’t have dissed his old man. Damn!  But he didn’t trust his heart. His father had loved him unconditionally once, a long time ago. If he let him back in his life now, would his father abandon him again?

Where were you four months ago when I needed you, when the judge gave my child to her druggy mother?

Brett cranked the ignition key, threw the car into Reverse, and backed out of the driveway, his tires squealing. Getting to work on time was more important than his father’s conditional love.

He tried not to care, but he did. Rivulets of perspiration dripped down his back. He pounded his fist on the dashboard, ashamed of his outburst.

 

Chapter Three

 

Grady climbed the steep trail that bisected the woods of Hursey Lake, holding his iPhone and occasionally glancing at the GPS coordinates outlining their path. Luke, another boy scout from his troop, lagged behind, panting from the exertion. The early summer air was filled with sounds of birds chirping, bees buzzing, and squirrels chattering. A nearby stream gurgled, the short waves splashing over little rocks. Low tree branches brushed against Grady, scraping his legs.

This was Grady’s seventy-sixth geocaching hunt, but Luke’s first.

Luke said, “What are we looking for?”

“A container of some sort. A box, or a tin—something the size of a gallon or two, big enough to hold stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Random junk, like a whistle.” Grady led the way, glancing again at the iPhone, a little perturbed that he’d agreed to let Luke tag along. Grady had felt sorry for the guy. The kid was large and clumsy, and none of the other scouts had wanted to show him the ins and outs of geocaching so he could earn his medal. Being a sucker for the underdog, Grady told Luke he could go with him.

“What’s the big freakin’ deal about a whistle?”

“It’s not about what’s inside the box. It’s about finding it.” Some geocachers collected what they found and replaced items with others, but not Grady. He was only about the thrill of the find.

“If you say so.”

Grady glanced at the navigation map on the phone again. “It says we’ve arrived at our destination.” His heart pounded a little faster. They were close. He could feel it.

Luke’s eyes darted around. “I don’t see nothing.”

“It ain’t gonna jump out and bite ’cha. We have to look for it—like under a bush or a rock. It’ll be hidden.” He pointed to the left. “How ’bout if I go this way, and you go that way?” He pointed in the other direction.

Luke shrugged and went to his right, practically tripping over a tree stump. A line of ants marched around a tree.

Grady shook his head and started in the other direction. “Look up in the trees too. The clues said something about Jack and the Beanstalk.” Grady veered left and glanced up a large pine tree. He breathed in its deep musky scent. Nothing there. After turning in the other direction, he pushed up his glasses, which had slid down the bridge of his nose, and walked a few feet to the right.

Sunlight peeked through the branches of a large maple tree. Sweat dripped down Grady’s neck. He shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted, noticing something about eight feet up. Was there a log lodged between two branches?

He examined the tree bark at eye level, noticing scraped pieces—like someone had recently climbed the tree. The lowest branch was reachable if he jumped and swung himself around. He dropped one shoulder out of his backpack, then the other, then set it on the ground. “Luke, I think I see something.”

Tree and bush branches rustled as Luke approached. “Where?”

Grady gripped the lowest branch of the maple tree and swung his legs up. He hung upside down for a few seconds, huffing, before he righted himself and his glasses, straddling the tree branch. He nodded up the tree. “See it between the second and third branch?”

Luke shaded his eyes with his hands and looked. “Yeah. It looks like a log.”

“It might be a plastic one.” Grady scrambled up the next branch. Flies buzzed, swarming around his head.

Luke waited at the base of the tree. “Throw it down here. I’ll check it out.”

Grady huffed breathlessly, standing on the second branch on his tiptoes, hugging the tree. He reached for the next branch and missed. Too short. A fly landed on his bottom lip. He spit at it.

“Let me get up there. I’m taller,” Luke hollered.

“No way. I can get it.” Grady wrapped his legs and arms around the tree and shinnied up like a bear after honey. Dang, he was sweaty! And what was that smell? Phew. He scaled his way up until his fingertips touched the log. He let go of one hand and clutched the log with his other, grasping it in the palm of his hand. Yes! “It’s definitely plastic.”

Grady’s heart raced and he smiled. “Here, catch.” He pitched the object down to Luke. “There’re too many freakin’ flies up here!” He scooted down one branch. His feet dangled until they found the next one.

Luke fumbled the catch below, dropping the cache in the dirt. He bent over it, pinching his nose. “It smells like a dead fish.”

Grady scrambled down the tree and jumped with a thud from the last branch. “I know. I hope this ain’t no prank.” He wiped his sticky sap-coated hands on his shorts and examined the log.

Luke knelt on the ground. “What’cha think?”

“It’ll open. See the seams here?” Grady knelt next to Luke and pointed to the hinges on the side.

Luke covered his nose in the crook of his elbow. “I’m not opening it—especially if it’s for a stupid whistle. There’s something creepy in there.”

A buzzard squawked above them, swooped down, then landed in the maple tree close to where the log had been.

Grady stared up at the bird’s beady eyes and then down at the log, pinching his nose. “You wuss. It smells rotten, that’s all. I’ll open it.” He took the log, twisting it one way, then another, before it finally split apart, the contents spilling onto the ground. A red yo-yo, a ruler, a comic book, a logbook with a pen, and something in a semi-opened Ziplock bag tumbled out.

Luke said, “Cool!”

Grady lifted a thin stick off the ground. “Yeah, but what’s in this bag?” He unzipped the rest of the plastic bag, and an odor wafted from the inside. “Gross. It smells like something died.” He turned his head away, burying his nose in the crook of his arm, the stench burning his nostrils.

Luke pinched his nose and took the stick from Grady, poking the contents. “It looks like some fleshy thing.” He moved the thing back and forth with the stick, examining it from all angles.

“What the hell is it?”

“I think it’s a . . . a body part of some sort.” Luke stabbed at the object.

The hair on Grady’s arms stood straight up. “Why ain’t it bloody then?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe it’s from an animal.”

“Animals bleed and have fur. This has neither.” Grady’s brow creased. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Were they being watched?

Luke stood and backed away, his eyes widening. “Crap, I think it looks like the end of some guy’s pecker.”

Grady looked again and gasped. Damn, Luke was right.

 

Chapter Four

 

Brett drove to work, dodging red lights, weaving in and out of traffic like the thoughts snaking back and forth in his mind. Should he call Child Protective Services? He dialed their number, then pressed the Disconnect button, doubt paralyzing him. What if they placed Quinn in a foster home and it took forever to get her back, to prove that he was a fit parent? He’d seen it happen before.

Two blocks from the precinct he thought he’d timed it perfectly, that he’d arrive on time, but a car pulled over to the curb in front of him, blocking his way. What was the guy doing? Didn’t he realize he was stopping traffic? He banged his fist against the steering wheel.

A woman opened the passenger door, leaned in, and kissed the driver. Her husband? She got out, closed her door, and opened the back door. She resembled a model from a Victoria’s Secret catalog—high-fashion power suit, long flowing hair, lean legs, and high heels—so put together, her teeth so white they seemed to glow. Maybe she used whitening strips. Was she reaching in the back for a briefcase? No, she bent like maybe she was kissing a small child in a booster seat.

Why couldn’t Ali be put together like that?

The woman shut the door and blew her family a final kiss. Brett sighed. Ali would never be that poised or confident. He couldn’t change her, and nothing he could do would help her gain confidence. He’d tried. For years he’d tried. But he never managed to say the right thing.

The car finally pulled away from the curb, and five minutes later Brett entered the police precinct. He hurried to his cubicle. Chief Dunson shouted from down the hall. “What time is it, Reed?”

Busted.

Brett headed down the hall, ducking his head into the chief’s office. “Sorry I’m late, sir.”

An unlit cigar dangled from the chief’s mouth. “Looks like you’re making a habit of it.”

“No sir. It won’t happen again.” Brett nodded and headed back to his desk.

“That’s what you said the last time.” Chief’s voice trailed Brett down the hall.

A few minutes later, Brett sipped coffee at his desk with Clay, his partner. Clay, at six foot five, filled the room. Some of his body hung over the sides of his chair. He’d played football for U of M while in college, but after ten years of being off the playing field, he’d gotten a little soft around the middle and around his heart. He had a soft heart for underdogs, always rooting for the losing team. His laugh was as snarky as Eddie Murphy’s, kind of like a snorting sound, making other people snicker.

But Brett wasn’t laughing now. “When Quinn called this morning, I had to go check it out. There’ve been times when shaking Ali didn’t wake her. I had to make sure Quinn was okay.”

“Was she?”

Brett nodded. “Quinn was scared, but Ali sat up and spoke to me. She might go back to sleep, but I can’t control that.” He clenched his fists and lowered his voice. “I think Ali lost her job too. Which totally sucks because Quinn won’t be going to day care. As long as she’s in the house with Ali, I can’t think straight.”

“Why don’t you call CPS?” Clay nodded toward the phone, then opened his desk drawer and slid a file into place.

“They’ll find out I went over there.”

“So what? They’ll find her messed up too.”

“Yeah, but it might take them till tomorrow to check her out, and by that time she could be sober.”

“I’ll call then.” Clay reached for the phone.

Brett placed his hand on Clay’s arm. “Don’t do it, man.”

Clay said, “Why not? You need to nail her.”

“I know, but my ass will be on the line for violating the protective order. And there have been cases where the child was taken away for up to a year before the courts resolved the case. You know how messed up and overworked CPS is.”

“Maybe you should suck it up and call your old man, dude.”

Brett shook his head. His father was a local attorney, known and respected, but he couldn’t call him now, and he couldn’t tell Clay his old man had called. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’s made that clear.” And I hung up on him today.

When Ali had gotten pregnant six years ago, Brett had decided to do the right thing and marry her. He hadn’t known her for long—only long enough to be attracted to her. Looking back, maybe a part of him wanted to rescue her. She’d seemed so vulnerable.

Brett reached for the phone on his desk—the one with the blocked number so Ali wouldn’t know it was him calling—and dialed her number. No answer. Either she had fallen back to sleep or she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Probably both.

Clay arched his eyebrows. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have these bulging black bags under your eyes, and your pants are about to fall off. It’s not healthy living like you do—this ain’t right, man.”

Brett’s radio cracked with static before he heard the dispatcher. “Base to twenty-five, base to twenty-four. Possible assault and battery at 1246 Ditch Rd. EMS is on the way.”

Brett set his coffee down and hurried to the front door.

Clay followed and paused. “My wheels are in the shop. Can I hitch a ride with you?”

Brett nodded and pushed out the door, summer’s heavy humidity enveloping him in a sauna. He unlocked the car door. “Hop in.” They climbed in and Brett cranked up the air. The clock in the sedan showed 9:10. Maybe he’d get the chance to stop at home after this call. Ditch Road wasn’t far from Ali’s.

When Brett pulled in front of the house on Ditch Road, the ambulance had just arrived, its lights flashing in the driveway. The front door of the house stood open. Neighbors gawked from their porches and in the street. Brett and Clay hurried to assist.

Three feet inside the door, the victim lay on his back, naked from the waist down in a heap, writhing and screaming. As the EMTs wheeled their gurney into the house, they fired questions at the man. “What happened?”

“Are you blind? My dick is missing. Someone whacked it off.” He flapped his arms above his groin.

Clay knelt at the victim’s side. “What’s your name?”

“Jake”—he paused to catch his breath—“Hunter.”

Brett had seen a lot as a cop, but nothing like this. Hunter’s pecker was gone, and in its place was a short stub covered in blood with a thin strip of rubber knotted and dangling from the end. Brett’s stomach lurched. “Do you know who did this?”

“How the hell would I know? It’s not like I gave them permission.” Spittle flew from Jake’s mouth as he spoke, the alcohol on his breath filling the room. “I wasn’t awake when it happened. Someone drugged me and then sliced it off.” He winced and groaned as the techs lifted him onto the gurney and inserted an IV needle into his arm.

Brett said, “What do you remember?”

Jake took a deep breath. “Nothing. I was lying on my bed last night”—he pointed to the bedroom—“and woke up this morning . . . dickless.” He sucked in another deep breath, clenching his teeth. “It was probably my ex-wife. I’ll kill her.”

Brett quizzed him about his ex-wife, jotting down her name, phone number, and where she worked. “What time did you get home?”

“I closed Louie’s bar.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Maybe 2:20. I don’t know.” His face gathered in tight wrinkles as if he was forcing the words to come.

Brett made a mental note of the guy’s tattoos, his greasy hair and dirty fingernails, and the dried blood on his thighs. “Did you hear, feel, or see anything after you fell asleep?”

Jake stared at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “He put something like a rag over my face . . . smelled like some kind of gas.”

Clay glanced around the room. “Have you seen the rag?”

Jake, still lying on the gurney, sat up and lunged for Clay, grabbing his shirt in his fist, sticking his face close to Clay’s. “I ain’t had time to look for no rag. I’ve been too busy looking for my dick! You need to find it, you asshole!”

Continued….

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