Jason wasn’t sure how to answer, and in any case, Gervase wasn’t waiting for a response. “Over the course of six years, a local man by the name of Martin Pink abducted and murdered seven young blonde and blue-eyed women from swimming areas around Worcester County. The press dubbed him the Huntsman.”
“I remember the case. I—”
“Then you know ten years ago your partner was responsible for catching Pink and putting him behind bars. Except now we’ve got another blonde and blue-eyed teenage girl missing from a pool party. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s one hell of a coincidence.”
Kennedy said, “It could be a coincidence. It’s our job to make sure one way or the other.”
It could be a coincidence, and it could be a copycat. Copycat behaviors were more and more common thanks to the way violent crime was sensationalized in the “news” and the increased reach social media had given those various outlets of information. Jason had heard of more than one drug dealer legally changing his name to Walter White in honor of Breaking Bad, and the number of assaults and murders inspired by The Dark Knight’s Joker was frankly depressing. Teens and young adults were especially prone to copycat behavior. It was the nature of the beast. Even so, in the broader scheme of things, copycat crimes were relatively rare.
There remained a third possibility, of course. The possibility that Kennedy had put the wrong man behind bars.
The possibility that the Huntsman was still out there.
Chapter Three
The sun rose higher in the blue sky. The day grew hotter, dryer. The swarm of wasps at last dissipated, and the search for Rebecca recommenced in this key sector. Canine teams raced into the woods ahead of the slow-moving lines of volunteers and seemed to be swallowed whole into vast green silence.
It reminded Jason all too much of the search for Honey. Just because they had not managed to find Honey in time didn’t mean they wouldn’t find Rebecca. Especially given that Rebecca’s abductor was not Martin Pink.
Another hour passed, and the search moved farther afield. The lines of volunteers grew smaller in the distance.
As a kid, he remembered thinking how strange it was that the weather was completely unaffected by human tragedy. In the case of a missing child, it should by rights be raining. But no, it was a beautiful summer day. Not a cloud in the sky. And if the air had not been crackling with voices and radios and assorted engines, it would probably have felt tranquil, peaceful.
Anyway, there wasn’t time to stand around feeling whatever he was feeling—mostly uneasy; he had volunteered to help and had been handed the thankless task of coordinating the citizen searcher lists. Minimal responsibility and maximum aggravation. Kennedy, on the other hand, had vanished into the housing development an hour earlier. No doubt he was interviewing the Madigan housekeeper for himself, unhampered by his in-name-only partner.
Unless Jason was prepared to bird-dog Kennedy’s every step—which he wasn’t—he was going to have to try and develop a sense of humor about the situation.
Around four o’clock, Chief Gervase and Boxner returned to base. Boxner was saying, “I think it’s suspicious.”
Gervase shook his head. “When you’ve been at this job as long as me, you’ll find out that people act guilty for a lot of reasons.”
“Including they’re guilty,” Boxner said.
“Yeah, and sometimes people are guilty about stuff which has nothing to do with our investigation.” Gervase said to Jason, “Have you got a Tony McEnroe on any of your lists?”
Jason shuffled quickly through the sheets on his clipboard. “No.”
“What’s up?” Kennedy’s voice inquired.
Jason’s heart jumped. He hadn’t seen Kennedy, hadn’t noticed his approach, not that it should have affected him one way or the other, but he was intensely, uncomfortably conscious of Kennedy. Or more likely of Kennedy’s dislike.
Kennedy’s pale hair was dark with sweat and rings of underarm perspiration marked his blue FBI polo, so presumably he had been doing something more active than interviewing witnesses. Behind the sunglasses, his face was as impassive as usual as he met Jason’s look.
“Everyone in Kingsfield is here looking for Rebecca,” Boxner said. “Except Tony McEnroe.”
“Not everyone,” Gervase contradicted.
“Everyone who’s free to lend a hand is here.”
This time Gervase didn’t bother to deny it.
“McEnroe is the boyfriend,” Kennedy said. It was not a question. Jason didn’t doubt Kennedy had already committed all the players to memory.
“The boyfriend,” Boxner agreed. “And what a piece of work that guy is.”
Kennedy directed his sunglasses toward Jason, and Jason said, “I’ve confirmed he’s not officially on one of the search teams.” Then again a lot of people who were out there looking for Rebecca had not bothered to officially sign up. McEnroe might be one of them. Presumably he would know any places that were special to her or where she might run to in times of stress.
“If McEnroe was also missing, I’d have said they took off together,” Gervase said. “But we talked to McEnroe first thing this morning.”
“Waste of time on a waste of space,” Boxner said.
Gervase said, “The Madigans tried to discourage Rebecca from seeing him, but teenage girls have a mind of their own. Like I said, I don’t like him, but I don’t have any reason to doubt he’s telling the truth about Rebecca.”
“Except he’s not out here in the noonday sun wasting any time looking for a girl he’s supposed to be in love with.”
“Maybe we ought to have a chat with Mr. McEnroe,” Kennedy said.
Jason had become so used to Kennedy treating him as though he were invisible, it took him a second to realize he was being addressed. “Sure! Yeah!”
Maybe he sounded overly enthusiastic because Kennedy’s blond brows rose in what was fast becoming his usual skeptical expression regarding Jason, but not only was Jason happy at the opportunity to hand off his clipboard, he was relieved at the promise of at least some cursory investigation into the possibility Rebecca might not be the victim of a copycat killer.
Despite Kingsfield’s gruesome past, serial killers really were the least likely scenario in most missing person cases. And so far a missing person was all they really had.
“I’ll drive you out there,” Gervase said. “Boyd can stand in for me for a little while. Right, Boyd? Nothing you’d like better than to show me up at doing my own job.” He was grinning as Boyd began to protest.
Jason bestowed his clipboard on Boxner, who gave him another one of those narrow looks—did he really not remember Jason at all?—and followed Gervase and Kennedy to the chief’s SUV.
The chief’s radio was buzzing with updates as they climbed inside. The interior of the vehicle smelled of the little fake pine tree deodorizer hanging from the rearview mirror.
“I don’t believe we’re looking at the end result of a lover’s quarrel,” Gervase told them as he started the SUV’s engine. “I admit I’m curious as to why young McEnroe isn’t out here with the rest of us.”
Maybe because he knows everyone will be watching him, speculating, whispering. Jason didn’t say it aloud. He gazed out the window at the tangle of maple, birch, and oak trees, giant ferns, and flowering vines lining the roadside. You could wander a few steps from the road and lose all sense of direction in no time. However, Rebecca wasn’t a small child. She hadn’t wandered away from home and gotten lost.
“I saw you finally solved that case in Wisconsin,” Gervase said as the SUV bumped off the grass and onto the paved road. “Did you really throw the sheriff out the window?”