Heir

Chapter 7

7

Adam sat in his car, getting colder by the second. He rubbed the protruding bone of his wonky thumb and felt the chill on his skin. Still, it was hard to make himself move.

The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a couple of Beecham County Sheriff Department cruisers and three or four civilian cars that, like his, had seen better days. How long had it been since he’d been interrogated as a suspect inside that building, fled through the forest, and dodged roadblocks with Harlan… a couple of weeks? And how long since his father had escaped from custody? Even less. But upon returning to Iris’s house last night, Adam had found a message from Grant, asking him to stop by as soon as possible. He figured when the Sheriff asks you to stop by, it was better to do so under your own power rather than waiting to be officially picked up.

The door of Adam’s hatchback groaned as he opened it. At least this time it’s not me. His hearing was still a little off, but the ear wasn’t painful, and he felt mostly healed from last month’s excursions. Healed, but exhausted. He didn’t think he’d ever be not-tired again. Even sleeping in his familiar bed last night, rather than his car or a hospital chair, didn’t help him rest. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning, reminding him he should be doing something to help Harlan. Like tracking down his great-uncle Teddy.

Or tracking down Danny.

Except that wouldn’t be to help Harlan; it would be to help Adam. To help the frustrated, impotent rage that lay waiting beneath all the exhaustion.

A woman deputy sat behind the front desk. Pen in one hand, the other cupped around her head as though to protect it, her eyes were so intent on the page in front of her she didn’t initially see him. Adam couldn’t remember her name, and even if he had it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d forgotten he’d have to speak with someone other than Grant or Luther, someone who might still harbor suspicions about him, and it rendered him momentarily speechless.

Adam reluctantly cleared his throat. She lifted her face, and his twisted guts relaxed when she smiled.

“Good morning,” she said, before picking up the phone. “Sheriff Mason, Adam Rutledge is here to see you…”

A man and a woman sat as far from each other as was possible in the small waiting area. Both glanced up sharply when the deputy said Adam’s name.

“Mr. Rutledge, you can go on back,” the deputy said. “Do you know the way?”

“I’ll find it, thanks.”

He’d noticed the Sheriff’s door the last time he was in the office, not on his way to the interrogation room (he was in no condition to notice anything then), but on his way out. The door was wide open now, and Grant stood as Adam arrived, waving him to a chair.

“Thanks for coming in, Adam.”

“Any word on Virgil? Or Teddy?” Adam asked, hoping that was why he was here.

“Nothing solid. But we’re assuming they’re still together,” Grant admitted. “And Harlan?”

“Still no change,” Adam said. He wished he’d worn a hat, just so he’d have something to do with his hands.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is Iris still in Morgantown?”

“Yeah,” Adam said, feeling briefly self-conscious for sounding like a teenager. “Yes, but she’ll be back in a day or two to take care of some things.”

“Good. Before I forget, Special Agent D’Antonio went back to Bethesda, but he left something for you.” Grant handed Adam a flat object loosely wrapped in brown paper. “Once they finished processing the cabin, they didn’t need this, and he thought you might like to have it.”

It was Virgil’s framed photo of Adam’s mother. Adam’s own copy was lost to him for now—stuffed in a duffel bag in a truck Teddy and Virgil had driven who-knew-where. Adam touched his mother’s face before gently rewrapping the glass and setting it on Grant’s desk. “I appreciate this. Would you thank him for me?”

“No problem.” Grant leaned back in his chair. “While we’re on the subject of photos, I don’t suppose you have any pictures of yourself when you were younger—say early twenties?”

Adam grinned, trying not to appear as defensive as he suddenly felt. “Why, do you want to put me in a lineup for some ten-year-old cases?”

“Not exactly,” Grant said. “Would Iris have any of you? Or would JJ?”

Adam crossed his foot over his knee, then straightened his leg again when it started to bounce. “JJ wouldn’t. We never saw each other after I left Cold Springs, from the time I was maybe fourteen until last month. And Iris probably wouldn’t either. She’s not exactly camera-crazy. Sheriff, what’s this about?”

Grant raked his hands through his auburn hair, and Adam noticed the man looked almost as tired as he felt. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I should have said right off the bat, you’re not in any kind of trouble. Or at least, you’re not a suspect.” He pulled a folder from his desk drawer. “I need you to look at some pictures for me, if you don’t mind.”

He seemed to take Adam’s silence as an affirmative response, flipping the folder open and sliding it around to face him. Adam scanned through the photos once, then slowly made his way through them a second time. There were eight, all black and white copies, with the quality varying from pixelated impressions to what resembled a model’s portfolio pose. The three posed photos appeared to be of the same young man, but no one else was represented more than once. The subjects were in their late teens to mid-twenties. All had dark hair, no more than shoulder-length. From what he could tell, they were all of average height and build, though some were leaner than others. All wore casual clothing, but the photos were taken at different times of year, so the types of clothing varied. And there was no common denominator for setting, except none were taken in obviously urban areas.

Adam looked up to find Grant watching him closely.

“I don’t recognize any of them,” Adam said.

“You’re sure?” Grant asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Adam reiterated, although that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t recognize any single man, but they were all vaguely familiar. “Should I?”

“How about these?” Grant slid a folder with another half dozen photos across the desk.

The second photo was a punch to the gut. Adam slid it to the side and reviewed the remaining photos before returning to the second one. “Maybe this one,” he said. “Is he dead?”

“How do you recognize him?” Grant asked.

Adam rested his eyes on the heels of his hands. Whether to block out what was in his mind—freezing water, clawing arms, flashing images—or make it more clear, he wasn’t sure. “I told you I saw a flash of something while Danny and I were fighting in the river. This looks like the man Danny was choking.”

“Okay,” Grant said, as though victims were identified from near-death visions all the time. “And what about these names?”

Adam reluctantly removed his hands and blinked his eyes to clear them before skimming a typed list of a dozen names. “No. Nothing.”

Grant nodded and ran his fingers over his mustache, perhaps trying to hide his disappointment. Then he spread the pictures like playing cards, until he found the one he was looking for. It was the youngest-looking of the bunch, and one of the slimmest. Adam had the impression he was basically still a kid, that the rest of his body hadn’t yet caught up with his height. He wore a heavy metal T-shirt and jeans and was hamming it up for the camera, laying out his tongue and making devil horns with both hands. But he looked as though he were playing, laughing at the idea even as the picture was being taken.

Grant slid the list of names alongside the photo and pointed at one near the top. “As you know, we recovered two sets of remains from the mountain, near where you found Rachel. One was Sarah Edmunds. The other one, the body we initially thought was Danny, was this man.”

Adam stared at the photo and thought “man” was being generous. “How old was he?”

“Seventeen,” Grant said. “A runaway. He was the youngest.”

“The youngest?” Adam asked, both knowing what Grant was saying and unable to comprehend it.

“Eight of these men were found murdered sometime in the past fifteen years. Well, nine now that we’ve identified him,” Grant said, pointing at the goofy seventeen-year-old. “Three are still missing.”

“What about him?” Adam asked, pointing to the lanky young man he’d seen dying by Danny’s hands.

“One of the murdered.”

Bile rose in Adam’s throat. His esophagus burned as he swallowed it back down. “And you think—”

“We don’t know what to think,” Grant said.

But Adam could tell he was lying.

“I’ll see if I can get another photo of the man you may have seen so we can firm up that ID. You said you don’t recognize any of these other men…” Grant let his words hang in the air, obviously aware Adam wasn’t being entirely truthful, either.

“I don’t,” Adam repeated. “Not specifically. But they all seem vaguely familiar.”

“Uh-huh.” Grant’s tone walked the line between belief and disbelief. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped through its pages, then suddenly asked, “Were you in Chambersburg, January of 2004?”

Adam blinked. “I don’t know where I was. I didn’t exactly keep track. But I don’t think I ever lived in Chambersburg.”

“How about Waynesboro?”

Adam’s breath caught. “Yeah, I might’ve been.”

“And that’s what—fifteen miles from Chambersburg, give or take?” Adam didn’t respond, and Grant pointed at one of the photos, a man sliding from beneath a car, wearing a coverall. “He was murdered in Chambersburg then. Locals thought it was a robbery, but they never arrested anybody for it. How about Morgantown, August of 2010?”

“It’s possible. I’ve spent a few summers there, but I usually bug out before classes start in the fall.”

Grant pointed to another photo, so close-up it might have been taken at a correctional center. “That’s when his girlfriend reported him missing. Although they thought maybe he was her pimp rather than her boyfriend, so I don’t know how seriously they took the report. How about Johnstown, October of 2012?”

Adam couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. D’Antonio had never liked him. The photo of his mother had been a ruse, a way to get Adam to trust them. Surely the FBI agent would appear in the doorway any moment with an arrest warrant.

“Pittsburgh, March of 2015?” Grant continued.

Adam turned back to face the Sheriff and asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”

Grant shook his head in—was it frustration? Disbelief? Adam wished he knew.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Adam, look at the pictures again.”

“I didn’t kill these men—”

“Adam,” Grant cut in, “when we picked you up on the highway by the river, do you remember what you told me about the man you saw Danny choking?”

Adam’s hands shook as he spread the pictures, trying to arrange them so he could see all of the men at once. Grant shifted a stack of paper to accommodate him. Adam’s eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth. Some appeared happy; some appeared angry. Some he’d have a drink with; a couple he’d cross the street to avoid. They were all young, and they were dead. Or presumed dead. What else was there to see?

Grant slammed another framed picture down in the middle of the photos, and Adam flinched. No, it wasn’t a glass photo frame. Adam bent forward. It was a mirror. Adam glanced at Grant, confused. “What do you want me…”

But then, catching sight of his own hollow eyes, he recognized what he’d been refusing to see. He remembered what he’d said.

Dark, mostly short hair.

Clean-shaven, or stubbly.

Average height or taller.

Lean, as he’d been in his teenage years and was tending toward now, stress having eaten his flesh down to the bare muscles.

The first boy, the youngest one, even had a dimple that helped his devil face look like a joke. So did three of the others.

Just like Adam.

Because that’s what they had in common. The murdered men all looked like Adam.