“I’m telling you, I don’t know.”
“What kind of truck?”
“White,” Will replied. “A big pickup, an F-150. Look, I don’t know who was in it, but they were just hanging out there on the road. When we headed back south later, the truck was gone. So was the kid.”
Chapter Seventeen
A white F-150.
You couldn’t pick a more popular truck around these parts, but on the day Jeremiah disappeared, a white F-150 had been reported stolen in the lakeside town of Martin’s Point, which was fifty miles south of us. That didn’t sound like a coincidence. When I checked with Monica, she told me that the truck hadn’t been found yet, which was unusual for stolen vehicles around here. Most joyriders abandoned them within a couple of hours.
Agent Reed and I made the drive to Martin’s Point. Fifty miles probably sounds like a long way, but to us, it’s a trip to the dentist. Shopping for a new coat. Lunch with a friend. When you live out here, you get used to driving an hour to do just about anything.
“There’s a whole lot of nothing in this place,” Reed commented after we’d driven ten miles on the highway without seeing another soul. “Living here would drive me crazy.”
“Time moves a little slower in the country,” I agreed.
“It does that when you’re dead, too.”
“Let me guess. You’re a city man, Agent Reed.”
“I am.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Minneapolis.”
“Well, you weren’t all that far from the north woods living there, right? A couple of hours?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t get much farther than Uptown when I was a kid. I like having people around. Trees, not so much. I know small-town people probably hate cities, but give me a downtown neighborhood any day. This might as well be the dark side of the moon.”
I’d heard that sentiment from visitors many times before. “I don’t have anything against cities. I love going to the city. Most of us around here do. But then we’re happy to head home and leave you with the traffic and the noise and the pollution.”
“Well, you’re right about the traffic,” Reed said. Then he changed to an entirely new subject and took me by surprise. “Tell me about the murder here last fall.”
I knew what he was talking about, but I froze and said stupidly, “Murder?”
“Was there more than one?” he asked slyly.
“No.”
“Okay then. Violet tells me that a woman was shot and killed here last November. Her husband was a suspect, but the sheriff didn’t have enough evidence to make a case against him.”
“That’s right. The victim’s name was Colleen Whalen. Her husband is Keith.”
“So give me the details.”
“Do you think the murder has something to do with Jeremiah’s disappearance?”
“Probably not, but murder isn’t a common occurrence around here. Neither is child abduction. When two unusual events happen in the same area, my first instinct is to wonder whether they might be connected. Plus, Violet says that the victim’s house isn’t far from the Sloan house. They were neighbors, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you tell me. Could there be a connection?”
“I don’t see how. Colleen’s murder was months ago. November fourteenth.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“All right.”
I blinked as I drove, thinking about that day. I was shocked at how quickly Keith had been proven right. The FBI had only been in town for a few hours, and already he was on their radar screen. I was also focused on the sky ahead of us. Over the trees, I could see dark clouds pushing our way, blotting out the sun. A summer storm was getting closer.
“Deputy?” Reed asked.
“Sorry. Looks like severe weather coming in. I was thinking about Jeremiah. A kid in a storm, you know? I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
“Anyway, November fourteenth was a Saturday,” I went on, rattling off the details we’d unearthed in the investigation. “Colleen Whalen spent most of the day shopping in Stanton. She had dinner by herself at an Applebee’s restaurant and paid the check at seven forty-five p.m. There was nothing on her credit card after that and no calls on her cell phone. If she went straight home, it would have taken her about an hour to make the drive. That puts her back in town around nine p.m.”
“And her husband?”
“Keith Whalen says he was out hiking all day at Shelby Lake.”
Reed looked at me curiously.
“Yes, that’s how I got my name. Long story. Keith said he had a sandwich in his car in a parking area near the lake. He fell asleep. When he woke up, it was late in the evening. He headed home but says he didn’t get back until almost midnight. He found his wife dead in the grass outside their house, with the front door open. She’d been shot in the head. He called 911, and I responded to the call along with Deputy Twilley. There was no gun found at the crime scene. When we searched the house, we saw that a jewelry box in the master bedroom had been rifled. Keith said that an expensive watch had been taken from his nightstand, too. And Colleen’s wedding ring wasn’t on her finger.”
“So the idea is that his wife came home and interrupted a burglar, who killed her and escaped.”
“Yes.”
“Is that a common thing around here, armed robbery?”
“No.”
“Were there any witnesses who could confirm that Whalen was at Shelby Lake like he said? Or what time he got home?”
“No.”
“Did Whalen own a gun?”
“Yes, he told us that he owned a Taurus Centerfire revolver but that it was missing. The caliber of the bullet we recovered from Colleen Whalen was consistent with a gun like that, but of course, without the gun itself, we couldn’t test it.”
“And what did Mr. Whalen say about the state of his marriage?” Reed asked.
I gripped the wheel tightly. “He said it was fine.”
“Did his neighbors agree? I hear it’s tough to keep a secret in a small town.”
“Keith has a troubled past,” I said carefully. “He lost a leg in Afghanistan. He suffers from depression and probably PTSD. It’s safe to say his marriage showed the strains of that. Colleen worked with Ellen Sloan at the mini-mart, and Ellen told us that Colleen wasn’t happy.”
“So the murder victim knew Jeremiah’s mother?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t read too much into that. Everyone knows everyone else around here.”
Reed pursed his lips. “Keith Whalen was never charged in the murder?”
“No. Honestly, the sheriff didn’t believe Keith’s story, but there was no way to prove that a burglar didn’t do it. He talked it over with the county attorney, and they concluded there was too much reasonable doubt to get it past a jury.”
“Probably true,” Reed agreed. Then he added, “Do you know what kind of vehicle Keith Whalen drives?”
“A Toyota Highlander, I think.”
“So not a white Ford F-150?”
I turned my head and stared at him. “No.”
“Good to know.”
After that, we were silent until we reached Martin’s Point.
Martin’s Point is built on the shore of the region’s largest lake, much bigger than any of the other lakes in Mittel County. It was a quiet little town for a long time, but the city people had discovered it about twenty-five years earlier. They built summer homes all around the lakeshore, and upscale resorts and B&Bs had sprung up to accommodate vacationers. Antique shops and gourmet restaurants followed. The success of Martin’s Point took its toll on the other towns in the county. Some of the rustic cabin resorts that had prospered for decades went under as tourists found more upscale amenities by the lake. You can still find the ruins of several old resorts deep in the woods, slowly being overrun by Mother Nature.