The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,46

Her little boy had become a man. She buried her face in the shirt.

She could just take off for somewhere today. It didn’t really matter where. No one would even know she was gone until late this evening, and by then she would be miles away. Wade probably wouldn’t even come looking for her. And her parents most likely wouldn’t give a damn. But Derek. . . she just couldn’t leave Derek. And Derek wouldn’t leave Wade. He still loved and admired his dad; he hadn’t yet learned what an asshole Wade was.

She wadded up the shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket. Her gaze fell on Derek’s computer in the corner. The screensaver was flashing pictures of bikini-clad models posing and cavorting on a beach. She watched it for a moment, remembering something Derek had shown her once on the internet. The phone number she had jotted down was in her jeans pocket. She pulled it out and stepped over a pile of magazines toward the desk and flopped into the chair. She chewed her lips as the modem connected with a series of squelches and beeps. She hoped she remembered the website Derek had pointed her to. She typed in the address and the page blazed onto the screen. Her shaking fingers keyed the telephone number into the search block, and in thirty seconds she had Abby’s last name. A few more keystrokes and she had a street address.

Now she knew where the bitch lived. She stared at the monitor. A smile had crept onto her lips.

* * *

1:30 PM

God, it was hot.

Halloran had loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. Sweat was trickling down his neck and pooling in the hollow of his throat. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt and parted a clump of tall weeds with the toe of his shoe. Nothing there. He took a gulp from the lukewarm bottle of water in his hand.

All around him other members of the search team—some of them state boys—were carefully combing the riverbanks. They had started at the landing by the park and were working their way upstream on both sides of the river to Caneyville State Park. So far they had come almost a quarter of the ten-mile distance. Several bags of items had been collected—mostly trash—but anything that might link to a suspect, whether it be a candy wrapper or a foam cup, could turn up here.

Across the sluggish water, Chapman’s red head bobbed among the tangled vines and limbs. Chapman’s intensity for the investigation was impressive. Since Sarah Jo’s body had been pulled from the river he had spent every hour at the office going through the evidence, had spent many late evenings looking at photos and following up leads. Halloran couldn’t help feeling proud; he’d trained Chapman after all. He was becoming a good detective, and his drive and conscientiousness were innate traits that couldn’t be learned in a police academy. He would be a natural to head up the whole department someday.

“Lieutenant!” One of the state guys stood in a small clearing. He beckoned Halloran closer and pointed to the ground. “Got something here.”

Halloran climbed up the bank toward the officer. The bank was steep here, and he almost lost his footing in the loose soil.

Atop the knoll was a set of tire tracks. They weren’t fresh, but they couldn’t be more than a couple of days old. The ground had been soft and muddy when they were made, and now the treads were preserved perfectly in the hard dirt.

“Excellent,” Halloran said. “Take an impression and get it to the lab.”

He blew out a breath and took another sip of water. Onward and upward.

* * *

5:05 PM

Derek had just spent eight hours of hell in the kitchen of the Dairy Queen on Fourth Street. He punched his timecard and emerged into the blinding sunlight. It was hotter out here on the asphalt parking lot, but not by much. He hated it here—fucking hated it. The days were all a massive blur of flipping burgers, mopping floors, and scraping the grill. Half the time he couldn’t remember what he’d done all day, as if he was just a functioning robot.

Today he happened to glance at the front line and spotted his old algebra teacher, Hicks the Prick, at the register. The Prick ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, which had to be cooked special. Derek spit on the meat before he tossed it over