She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,143

though, it’s important that you know what I found only backs up more ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ That ‘wrong place, wrong time’ says something, though. It opens doors.”

Fogel closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “You were far less cryptic when you were a drunk.”

“Corner store is only three blocks up the sidewalk. You’ll have to make the run, though. I’m not much into distance travel these days, and the hill at Klondike Road is a bitch.”

“Not a chance.”

He produced a manila file folder from one of the boxes beside him, set it on the table, and rested his palm on top. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it was important.”

Fogel’s eyes dropped to the folder. “I’ll regret this, won’t I?”

“Probably.”

“Show me, before I change my mind.”

This brought a smile to Stack’s face. He opened the folder and slid a stack of stapled pages across to her. “For starters, our boy is rich.”

“What?” She studied the document. Some kind of trust.

“When the aunt died, she filled the hopper with insurance policies. We’re not sure how she covered the premiums. Rudy’s looking into that, ’cause she didn’t make much. All told, she left him nearly three million dollars when she passed.”

Fogel fell back in her chair. “No shit.”

“No shit.”

“He doesn’t live like a millionaire.”

“That attorney of his has him on a tight leash, also at the instruction of his aunt. It’s all in the trust. He gets a small allowance, but the bulk of the money is tied up until he graduates from Penn State,” Stack said.

Fogel flipped through the pages. “But he dropped out of Penn State.”

Stack shrugged. “I didn’t say he made sound life decisions, just giving you the facts.”

“I suppose he could go back.”

“I suppose so,” Stack agreed. “Until that time, he collects two thousand dollars per month, deposited right into his checking account, which he can access with an ATM card. His attorney’s office covers the bulk of his bills—rents, utilities, and the like, so this is more or less spending money.”

“And you followed that spending money?”

Stock nodded. “We followed that spending money.”

Using the edge of the table, he rose to a stand and went to a map on the wall. “Each blue tack represents a cash withdrawal since he dropped off our radar four years ago.”

Fogel followed him and studied the map. “He’s been all over the country.”

“That he has.”

“What are the red tacks?”

“Those would be our ‘wrong place, wrong time’ events,” Stack said.

“What do you mean?”

He pointed at one in the southern corner of Montana. “August 8, 1994, Billings, Montana. Four people found dead in the hospice ward of St. Francis Hospital. All appearing to be burned beyond recognition, but not really burned. Their sheets, beds, the room itself completely untouched.” He pointed to the blue tack next to the red one. “August 23, 1994. Our boy takes twelve hundred dollars out of a bank one block away from the hospital.”

“Two weeks later?”

“Yep.”

“Where was he before that?”

Stack went back to the table and leafed through the pages in the folder. “Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He took out one thousand on August 9.”

“So he was in Florida when those people died?”

“I suppose he could have flown, but yeah, probably.”

Stack hobbled back to the map. “There’s more. This one here.” He indicated another red tack. This one in Iowa. “We’ve got two hundred acres of corn that went bad overnight, on August 8, 1995.”

“Corn?”

Stack nodded. “According to the local sheriff, the entire field looked like someone covered it in gasoline and struck a match. Every stalk was black.”

“But not really burned.”

“But not really burned,” he agreed.

Fogel’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the map. “It’s always been people.”

“Unless we missed something, yeah.”

“And where was Thatch?”

“Texas, on August 6. He got to the cornfield on August 10.”

“Too fast for a bus, too slow for a plane. He’s driving,” Fogel pointed out.

Stack pointed at yet another red tack. “August 8, 1996, Chicago. A suspected mugger is found in Grant Park.”

“Burned, but not really burned.”

“Yep.”

“And Thatch?”

“Last withdrawal was nearly a week earlier in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Then another withdrawal on the 9th in Chicago,” Stack told her.

Stack went to the last red tack. “Last year. Rye, New Hampshire. A homeless man in Odiorne Point State Park. Body found, same as the others. He had three different wallets on him, so probably some kind of thief. He’s still a John Doe, though. Thatch got there two days later. Prior to that, he was in Philly.”

“He’s chasing these events.”

“He’s chasing