always the prime suspect.
Although he could avoid mentioning the letter at all and could report her as a missing person, he was pretty sure that she had to be missing for at least forty-eight hours before the cops would even talk to him about it.
No, he couldn’t call the cops. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
He started to put down the phone, but then, out of vain hope, he dialed Rachel’s cell again. Voice mail picked up right away.
He hung up without leaving a message, his hand shaking.
A vibrating noise came from a darkened corner of the kitchen. He hurried over there, nearly tripping over his feet.
The noise came from the side counter, where they stored mail, a glass bowl that held their keys, an erasable task list, and their respective cell phone chargers. His BlackBerry lay on the counter, vibrating rhythmically.
Rachel’s cell phone stood there, too, nestled in the recharging cradle.
His calls to her had been pointless. Not only had she left him behind—she’d left him no means to get in touch with her, either.
A check of his BlackBerry confirmed that he’d received only a stupid text message advertisement from the phone service provider. Nothing from Rachel.
He stumbled into the family room and collapsed on the sofa.
A photo sat on the coffee table. It was a wedding shot of them walking down the aisle at his family church, arms interlinked, the pastor having recently declared them husband and wife.
He cradled the photo in his hands. And wept.
Drawn by his wracking sobs, Coco wandered into the room and hopped onto the couch. She crawled into his lap.
He set aside the picture and held the dog close. He rarely cried, but the tears poured out of him from a deep chasm in his heart, scalding his cheeks like a purifying fire ...and soon, concentrating his thoughts as sharply as a freshly smelted iron sword.
Wherever she had gone, whatever this was all about, he vowed that he was going to get to the truth, no matter what.
PA RT T WO
. . .Will Come to Light
21
Like a manta ray gliding through deep sea waters, Dexter plied the night-darkened streets of St. Louis, Missouri.
At a Wal-Mart outside Chicago, he’d purchased several items, including a StreetPilot GPS navigation system. With the technology available these days, it made no sense to pore over an unwieldy paper map, and there was a strong likelihood that he had a lot of driving ahead of him.
He also bought another pay-as-you-go cell phone. After speaking with his wife on the other cell, he discarded it in the flatbed of a pick-up truck bound in the opposite direction. The law could use cell signals to trace his location.
He’d taken care to avoid toll booths, too. Cops loved to nab felons who blithely passed through toll plazas and let surveillance cameras snap their photos and tags.
The GPS system directed him to a subdivision on the outer limits of St. Louis. A tall, wrought iron fence ran along the perimeter of the community, festooned with holiday lights. Shrubbery garlanded with more lights flanked a large sign
that read HAWTHORN ESTATES .
There was no gate; he drove through the wide entrance. The community’s grandiloquent title was misleading. The residences were hardly estates. They were modest ranches and two-story homes with partial brick fronts and Hardiplank siding.
He followed a gently curving road. The houses and lawns were dusted with snow that resembled cake frosting. Most properties boasted light displays; some of them had representations of little baby Jesus in the manger, reindeer, Santas, and snowmen.
The home he sought was ahead, on the left. It was a twostory model with an attached garage, and neatly maintained shrubbery entwined with Christmas lights, which happened to be shut off.
The rest of the house was dark, too.
Thanks to Betty’s message, Thad knew he was on the prowl. Had he gone somewhere else to spend the night? Perhaps in the arms of a lover?
It was only half-past eight, however. Thad could have been out to dinner, or
Although he could avoid mentioning the letter at all and could report her as a missing person, he was pretty sure that she had to be missing for at least forty-eight hours before the cops would even talk to him about it.
No, he couldn’t call the cops. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
He started to put down the phone, but then, out of vain hope, he dialed Rachel’s cell again. Voice mail picked up right away.
He hung up without leaving a message, his hand shaking.
A vibrating noise came from a darkened corner of the kitchen. He hurried over there, nearly tripping over his feet.
The noise came from the side counter, where they stored mail, a glass bowl that held their keys, an erasable task list, and their respective cell phone chargers. His BlackBerry lay on the counter, vibrating rhythmically.
Rachel’s cell phone stood there, too, nestled in the recharging cradle.
His calls to her had been pointless. Not only had she left him behind—she’d left him no means to get in touch with her, either.
A check of his BlackBerry confirmed that he’d received only a stupid text message advertisement from the phone service provider. Nothing from Rachel.
He stumbled into the family room and collapsed on the sofa.
A photo sat on the coffee table. It was a wedding shot of them walking down the aisle at his family church, arms interlinked, the pastor having recently declared them husband and wife.
He cradled the photo in his hands. And wept.
Drawn by his wracking sobs, Coco wandered into the room and hopped onto the couch. She crawled into his lap.
He set aside the picture and held the dog close. He rarely cried, but the tears poured out of him from a deep chasm in his heart, scalding his cheeks like a purifying fire ...and soon, concentrating his thoughts as sharply as a freshly smelted iron sword.
Wherever she had gone, whatever this was all about, he vowed that he was going to get to the truth, no matter what.
PA RT T WO
. . .Will Come to Light
21
Like a manta ray gliding through deep sea waters, Dexter plied the night-darkened streets of St. Louis, Missouri.
At a Wal-Mart outside Chicago, he’d purchased several items, including a StreetPilot GPS navigation system. With the technology available these days, it made no sense to pore over an unwieldy paper map, and there was a strong likelihood that he had a lot of driving ahead of him.
He also bought another pay-as-you-go cell phone. After speaking with his wife on the other cell, he discarded it in the flatbed of a pick-up truck bound in the opposite direction. The law could use cell signals to trace his location.
He’d taken care to avoid toll booths, too. Cops loved to nab felons who blithely passed through toll plazas and let surveillance cameras snap their photos and tags.
The GPS system directed him to a subdivision on the outer limits of St. Louis. A tall, wrought iron fence ran along the perimeter of the community, festooned with holiday lights. Shrubbery garlanded with more lights flanked a large sign
that read HAWTHORN ESTATES .
There was no gate; he drove through the wide entrance. The community’s grandiloquent title was misleading. The residences were hardly estates. They were modest ranches and two-story homes with partial brick fronts and Hardiplank siding.
He followed a gently curving road. The houses and lawns were dusted with snow that resembled cake frosting. Most properties boasted light displays; some of them had representations of little baby Jesus in the manger, reindeer, Santas, and snowmen.
The home he sought was ahead, on the left. It was a twostory model with an attached garage, and neatly maintained shrubbery entwined with Christmas lights, which happened to be shut off.
The rest of the house was dark, too.
Thanks to Betty’s message, Thad knew he was on the prowl. Had he gone somewhere else to spend the night? Perhaps in the arms of a lover?
It was only half-past eight, however. Thad could have been out to dinner, or
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