The Devil's Closet by Stacy Dittrich Page A

back to the same diner for the second time in one day, this time even more tired and hungry. And for the second time, when we pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me!” barked Michael as he looked at the phone. “Is the guy on the fucking roof of the diner watching us or what? How does he do it? No one appears to be following us.” Just to prove his point, he craned his neck all around, looking for suspicious cars and upward to see if anyone was on a roof.
    I couldn’t believe it either, and now I was so nervous that I wasn’t sure I would be able to talk to the killer again. My caller ID showed it was Eric. Maybe it would have been easier if it had been the killer. I asked Michael to wait inside the diner, reluctantly telling him why I needed to take the call. To say the least, he did not look pleased as he got out of the car and headed for the diner.
    “Hello.” My voice was shaking.
    “It’s me. Can you talk?”
    “Yes, but I don’t know what there is to talk about. You haven’t wanted to speak to me in days.”
    “Do you want to tell me where you were last night?”
    Eric was good, I’ll give him that. He threw the question out right in the beginning, throwing me off guard; his intention, I’m sure. I was flooded with guilt and on the verge of tears, but I’d be damned if I’d tell him the truth. And damned I just might be.
    A 911 page beeped in my ear, cutting into our call. It meant a major emergency, most likely with the Ashley Sanders case. I assumed that her body was found.
    “Eric, I have to go. Now. I just got a 911. Can we talk later?” With no response, he simply hung up.
    My stomach knotted, but I couldn’t worry about Eric right now. While I was starting to call the office, I was motioning for Michael, who was sitting by a window in the diner, to quickly come outside. I was on hold and still waiting when Michael came out.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked breathlessly.
    “I just got a 911 page. I bet they found Ashley’s body, and I’m still on hold.”
    It seemed like eons before someone picked up the line. After explaining that I had just been paged, it was a matter of seconds before I was told why. And I didn’t need a mirror to know my face went pale. I hung up the phone and looked at Michael, feeling like I was going to vomit.
    “Good Lord, CeeCee! What’s wrong?” Michael was impatient.
    “Michael, it’s not about Ashley. There’s another Amber Alert, a five-year-old Amish girl walking home from school.”
    “He told us.”
    “He told us what?” I hated riddles.
    “The poem—‘another one gone.’ We assumed it was Ashley Sanders. The pink shoe was found first, then ‘ another one gone .’ He went in reverse. He told us he was going to take another child today , and we missed it!”
    After it sunk in what Michael was saying, I still thought that as far as prevention goes, he was wrong.
    “Even if we had known and figured out the poem earlier, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He never referred to a place or any timetable. We can’t have officers surrounding every child in the county, for crying out loud!”
    “I realize that, CeeCee,” he snapped. “I’m just angry at how this is playing out. The killer still has the fucking upper hand.”
    Recriminations and further analysis were useless. We needed to get to the kidnapping scene as quickly as possible, so I got in the car without replying. He drove while I made calls, the first being to Kincaid, who was already aware of the alert. It was about a twenty-minute drive, fifteen if Michael drove faster. Planktown Road, where the child was taken from, was one of the northernmost roads in the county. Admonishing myself for not driving since I knew the area better, I was yelling out directions to Michael.
    The officers gave a suspect vehicle description; a newer, red passenger car. No suspect description. The child, five-year-old Emma Yoder, was wearing a light blue