Secrets in Shadow: Chapter 2
Title: Secrets in Shadow
Author: Roselani24
Genre: adventure, drama, horror
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A big thank you to my fantastic beta,laughtersmelody who read and re-read this story, offering endless encouragement and tips. You're awesome, girl! Also a big thank you to my artist,loki_scribe for the beautiful artwork!
Chapter 2
Tuesday January 10, 1995
“Good morning,” Peter greeted his small, early am class. There was a hummed sound of answers from the students. A quick scan revealed many half-mast eyes and numerous coffee cups sitting on the desks. He smiled, holding up his cup in a silent salute. He knew all too well, how waking up early at that age was tough after being up most of the night.
Fifteen minutes after seven, Peter started reading the roll and asking if there were any students on the waiting list or petitioning to join. By eight o’clock, he was reading the syllabus and explaining his expectations for the class. As he talked, Peter observed his students, letting the atmosphere generated by the individuals flood his senses, giving him all sorts of basic information. There was one student sitting near the back in particular that caught Peter’s attention. Eric O’Brien, the tenant living in the basement of the house.
The young man was oddly awake for the early hour, glancing around the room and fidgeting constantly. Peter decided to keep an eye on the young man, in case the strange behavior proved to be more than it seemed.
By the time his next class started, Peter had put O’Brien out of his mind, fully focusing on getting through the students’ names and reviewing the syllabus again.
He had just dismissed his second class for the morning when a familiar face approached.
“Professor Matthews?”
“Yes?”
Eric O’Brien shuffled his feet, one hand playing with the strap of his backpack. “I was just wondering…why the syllabus is incomplete.”
Peter blinked, blindsided by the question. He shot the younger man a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”
“You have written here that we’re going to be discussing the New Hard Times and what happened here locally, but there’s no mention of the Lost Creek Cutter.”
“Who?” Peter asked, startled. He’d never heard of a killer by that name. And what was with O’Brien calling the Great Depression the New Hard Times?
O’Brien’s face reddened, lip curling in a faint snarl.
“How can you not know the Lost Creek Cutter? You’re a history professor!”
“Now hold on,” Peter said, holding his hand up. O’Brien cut him off, waving his hands angrily.
“You’re just like the rest of them. Claiming to know history, but you know nothing! Nothing! Look at the disappearances recently and the murder earlier last month! Just like the Lost Creek-“
“That’s enough Mr. O’Brien.” Peter commanded, using his officer voice. He drew himself up to his full height, hands coming to rest on his hips. “We can discuss this civilly or you can leave right now.”
O’Brien glared hotly. Without another word, the dark haired young man spun around and stormed out. Peter watched him go silently. Shaking his head, he started packing up his bag. He stopped abruptly, resting both of his hands on the desk and exhaling deeply. What did O’Brien mean the disappearances were just like the Lost Creek Cutter’s? And why did he have such a bad feeling about the whole thing?
Looks like he’d be hitting the library for some research.
~*~
One of the benefits of working on a college campus such as Gettysburg College was access to a fully funded, extensive library like the Musselman Library.
Peter ran his finger along the spines of the library books. He had never heard any mention of the Lost Creek Cutter before. That was odd in itself, but even odder was that, so far, he had found no mention of the Cutter in any of the books.
None of these books looked very promising. Maybe he should try the new computer database. That would certainly speed things up.
As he walked through the rows, Peter pondered O’Brien’s outburst. From his previous observations, Eric O’Brien was just a normal college kid. Where had the anger come from?
More importantly, why had he called the Depression the New Hard Times? Newspapers had called the early years of the 1930’s by that name, but that had later given way to the Great Depression. No one used that name nowadays. Not unless they lived through those turbulent years, but even that possibility seemed highly unlikely. Then, there’d been O’Brien’s comparison of the recent disappearances and murder. Surely there must be something about the Lost Creek Cutter somewhere!
Peter sat down in front of a computer, fingers poised over the keyboard. The Lost Creek Cutter must have been around during the Depression. That was where he would begin his search. He started typing. Ten minutes later Peter was no wiser on who the Lost Creek Cutter was. He’d even broadened the search! Nothing.
He leaned back, rubbing his hand across his face. That seemed to be his luck lately. Always finding nothing, when there really should be something!
“Hey, there, sweetie. Not finding what you’re looking for?”
Peter turned. “Hi, Mrs. Miller.”
The petite, silver-haired librarian clucked her tongue. “Now, now, Professor Matthews. Call me Donna. All that missus stuff makes me feel old.”
She grinned saucily and winked. Peter couldn’t help smiling back, a low chuckle escaping.
Part-time faculty librarian Donna Miller may have been well over sixty, but she certainly had not slowed down. She still dressed smartly, although probably less formally then when she worked in the Office of Admissions in Eisenhower House, and volunteered at college events on a regular basis. College kids were her passion, and she took a personal interest in the students attending the university. President Hummel advised him to ask Miller if he had any further questions about Miss Stewart or any campus activity, because almost without fail, she would know something.
“All right, Donna.”
“Better,” she approved with a grin, crossing her arms across her chest. “Now tell me, Professor, why you look near ready to pitch the computer across my library.”
He was immediately sheepish. “That obvious, huh?”
Donna laughed quietly, patting his shoulder kindly. “Only to someone who has had the same thought on occasion. Infernal machines! More trouble then they’re worth sometimes.”
Peter hummed in agreement. “Yeah. A student of mine asked about what we’re going to be studying during the Great Depression. He mentioned someone called the Lost Creek Cutter that he believes I should have been included in my curriculum. But I’ve never heard of this Cutter.” He waved a hand at the computer. “And according to this infernal machine, there is no serial killer by that nickname.”
Donna was frowning when he finished. She tapped her chin, the necklace around her neck tinkling. “The Lost Creek Cutter? Hmmm.” Shaking her head, “Can’t say I’m familiar with that name. Have you tried our newspaper archives? You may have some luck there.”
“No, not yet. This library has a newspaper archive?”
Most libraries had a section where newspapers were bound in volumes going back maybe twenty-five years at best. The older newspapers were normally too fragile at that point to be kept in a volume without crumbling to dust or ripping from public handling. Those normally were found at the town historical society.
“Of course,” Donna declared proudly. “We have a copy of every newspaper ever printed here in Gettysburg dating back before Civil War.”
Both eyebrows shot up. Impressive. Donna waved her hand. “Come with me, Professor. I’ll show you.”
Obediently, Peter followed her to the back of the library through a door marked “Personnel and Faculty Only”. With a quick right turn, and down several stairs, Donna led Peter into a dimly lit corridor with a four doors. She walked to the closet door on the left, pulling out a faculty issue key.
“This is where all our newspapers are being kept at the moment. But the Board has plans to add another wing to the library where all the newspapers and historical works will be moved to so that the students will be free to access them,” she explained. Donna gave him a wry look. “Until then, we have this.”
She pushed the door open and flicked the switch. There were rows and rows of rickety metal storage shelves, each inch of space filled with large dusty books and yellowed papers in clear plastic coverings or laminations to preserve the oldest pieces. The overhead light bulb was uncovered and shone dully, casting a rather eerie yellow glow about the room. On the far side of the room there was a wooden desk at least as old as the metal shelves covered in plastic.
The elder woman took in his shocked expression. “I know it doesn’t look like much, Professor Matthews, but you may find some answers here.”
“Yeah,” Peter choked out as calmly as he could. “Maybe I will. Thank you, Donna.”
“You’re most welcome, young man. Good luck.”
Left alone, Peter glanced around the room again and sighed. Well, he’d better get started.
Two hours later Peter was sitting at the rickety desk, carefully turning pages of yet another book of newspapers from the 1930’s. This one was from 1932. The hardest part about the newspapers volumes wasn’t looking through the books themselves, but rather finding them. A couple volumes showed water damage so Peter assumed wherever the volumes had previously been stored, the room had leaked. The end result was the volumes were packed and stacked in random order, with no rhyme or reason to where they were placed.
Beep! Beep!
Peter jumped. What the?-Oh, his pager. He glanced down, reading the number. Why was that familiar…Oh blast it! The faculty meeting at two o’clock!
He jumped up, knocking the old metal chair over with a crash. Cringing, Peter quickly grabbed his briefcase and raced out the door. He’d come back later and put everything away. Right now, getting to the meeting was more important.
As he jogged up the basement steps Peter silently cursed his forgetfulness. He’d been so caught up in the case and the strange encounter with O’Brien, he’d failed to keep track of the time. Great way to maintain his cover!
Waving his thanks to Donna, he rushed out the library doors. He turned the corner on the walk that led to Wiendensall Hall. The next moment he was staggering from the force of impact, his briefcase thrown from his hand, papers scattered.
“Geez man, watch where you’re going!”
“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, grabbing his briefcase and quickly began stuffing all his papers back in side. Horror filled him when he realized that the police files had fallen out too. He heard a sigh and then a pair of worn boots stepped in his line of vision.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just, I’m late for a meeting and this is my first week-“
“Dude, its okay.” The stranger cut off his ramble, kneeling down to help pick up the mess. Peter glanced up to thank him and froze. It was Mr. Bad Boy Leather from Pike’s last night!
“Uh, thanks,” he stuttered, accepting the proffered papers and files. In the bright sunlight, it was much easier to see the young man. Dirty blonde cut in short military style, strong but fine facial features, and sharp green eyes peered at him curiously. He was younger then Peter initially thought last night. Only nineteen at most, Peter guessed. A freshman maybe? He was carrying a tattered olive green book bag that seemed heavy with books.
“Professor Peter Matthews.” He extended his hand. The young man accepted, his grip strong and firm as he simultaneously pulled Peter to his feet.
“Paul Jones.”
He studied the young man, his curiosity burning. A glance at his watch informed him, however, he was not only late, but extremely late. He groaned. “Well, thank you Mr. Jones for your assistance. I do apologize for running you down, but I have to go.”
“Hey, no worries, Professor.” Jones said easily. “See you around.”
Hours later, Peter sat slumped in his closet of an office. He’d arrived thirty minutes late to the meeting. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if he were actually working on the case. O’Brien’s comments, he realized in retrospect, had sent him digging in the wrong direction and effectively distracted him. Rookie mistake. Then there was the question of whether or not Peter really considered O’Brien a suspect in the case. The young man certainly behaved oddly. But he was no stranger than Paul Jones. All in all, Peter had been sufficiently distracted even when he was at the meeting.
Sighing, Peter opened his satchel to fix his papers after his run-in with Jones. Several pages were crumbled, some damp from melted snow, and some slightly torn. He laid them out on his desk, trying to determine the worst of the damage. Something was missing.
Peter’s eyes widened and he quickly flipped through the papers and folders again. He checked the bag, but there was nothing left inside.
Mentally he reviewed his departure from the library and his lips thinned. Peter slammed his fist down on the desk. Bad Boy Leather had stolen the police report on Fisher and Hernandez!
~*~
“I’m sorry, Professor. There’s no one listed here by that name.”
Peter wasn’t surprised, but it was worth a shot. He politely thanked the woman from attendance and hung up. So “Paul Jones” was not a student at the college. Peter tapped his pen, thinking. The young man had an interesting accent, a mix of Texan and Californian. It was highly unlikely he was local. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask GPD to check their records.
He punched in the number to Sheriff Wayne’s private office phone.
“Adam’s County Sheriff’s office. This is Lilly. How may I help you?”
“Hey Lilly, it’s me. I need to talk with the sheriff.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s indisposed.” The tone was polite, but Peter caught an undercurrent of frustration in her voice. He sighed. “Will he be available anytime soon?”
“Not likely. Stewart called.”
Ah. Peter winced. That explained a few things.
“All right, could you take a message for me?”
“Of course.”
Peter quickly explained what he wanted and why. At the last minute, he added what he knew about the con’s supposed father. Hopefully if the police found one, they could find the other. Lilly promised to let the Sheriff know as soon as he could escape the Stewarts. “Thanks.”
He dropped the phone back on the receiver and rocked backwards. What in heaven’s name was going on? First O’Brien, now this punk stealing police files. But Peter didn’t understand why.
“Professor Matthews?”
Speak of the devil-O’Brien peaked in the door. “A moment?”
“Sure, Mr. O’Brien. Come in.” Peter waved him in. How could his day get any worse?
The young man shuffled in, head down. He stopped in front of the desk, shifting from foot to foot, his shaggy bangs hiding his eyes. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier today. I was out of line.”
“Apology accepted,” Peter replied gently. In a firmer tone, he said, “Next time, just explain what’s wrong. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter nodded. “Good. Now, I’m curious. Who was this Lost Creek Cutter?”
“Oh, um, just someone my…grandfather used to tell stories about.” O’Brien shrugged, sheepish. “Got really caught up in them, I guess. Believed they were real.”
“So, they were just stories your grandfather told you growing up?” Peter’s brow furrowed. Who told his grandson stories about serial killers? Assuming that’s what the Lost Creek Cutter really was. O’Brien’s apology seemed sincere, but saying the Lost Creek Cutter was fictional seemed a bit of a stretch. But then, Peter hadn’t been able to find any mention of a killer by that name, so maybe it wasn’t real after all. Not that he was going to admit he’d spent his lunch hour digging through cluttered newspapers in a cold basement. Still, the fact O’Brien started to compare the recent kidnappings and murder to the Lost Creek Cutter nagged him. Something was off here.
“Yes, Professor. That’s all. I just finally realized they were merely tall tales.” Something in O’Brien voice set off Peter’s inner alarm bells. He remained casual however, keeping his calm and curious exterior. If O’Brien really was mixed up in something, it would be a mistake on Peter’s part to tip him off.
“Ah. Well, thank you for stopping by.”
Peter shook O’Brien’s hand. It was like dipping his hand in ice water. He covered the sensation by stuffing his hand in his pant pocket as casually as possible.
“Good day, Professor.”
The ice raced up his arm, seeping into the very marrow of his bones.
“Good day.”
Peter waited until O’Brien’s steps completely faded away before he darted out of his office and down the hall to the restroom. Turning on the faucet, he put his hand underneath the warm water and breathed a sigh of relief.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Peter glanced around the bathroom, but there was no one there. He was alone.
“Yeow!” Peter yelped, pulling his hand up to his chest. What the heck? The water went from warm to freezing! His breathe frosted on the mirror and Peter stepped back, fear rolling in his belly. What-? The thought didn’t finish forming before the lights suddenly flickered and the temperature of the whole room dropped. Peter swallowed in a desperate attempt to moisten his mouth. What was going on?
A splotch appeared on the mirror in front of him, growing, shaping itself into something like a human form. Peter watched with mixed fascination and horror, unable to tear his eyes away.
He inhaled sharply, the pale face of a young man no older then twenty-five peering at him. Peter just barely noticed the state of his-its? -clothing: torn, sullied Civil War era soldier jacket and hat, too caught up in the hideous ruby gaze. The blue lips moved without making a sound, but Peter’s brain was frozen and unable to decipher the words.
The lights flickered again and suddenly it was gone. Peter did a 360-degree turn; chest heaving as he slowly realized everything was normal again. The faucet was still running, steam slowly rising up from the sink. No more ice on the mirrors. No flickering lights. No more cadavers with red eyes looking at him. Just a normal men’s restroom. It looked exactly the way it had when he’d walked in five minutes ago.
Hastily, Peter slapped the faucet off, fighting to control the tremors racing through his arms. It was nothing. Just a hallucination or waking nightmare. It wasn’t real.
Despite the assurances he came up with, Peter walked as fast he could out the door and back to his office.
His phone was ringing. Taking a deep breath in and slowly letting it out, Peter straightened his shoulders.
When he answered, he was once more in control. “Hello?”
“A man was found unconscious in the Devil’s Den parking lot by a park ranger. Took a nasty blow to the back of the head, and EMTs say his left ankle is broken,” Lilly Wayne reported without preamble.
Peter wondered aloud, “And why does this concern me?”
Lilly’s sounded entirely too smug for Peter’s liking. “He matches your description of the military guy you saw in Pike’s last night to a tee.”
“Where are they taking him?” Peter demanded, grabbing his jacket.
“Gettysburg Hospital. ETA five minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Peter drove his old pick-up into the hospital parking lot. He parked and let the engine idle with the heat on, considering his options. Right now, he had no proof to connect Military Dad and his son, Bad Boy Leather aka ‘Paul Jones’ to the kidnappings and the murder. All he had was a crime scene report for Joseph Hernandez and Melissa Fisher that had gone missing after an unexpected collision with Jones. As far as Peter knew, there was no other connection. Since he’d hit a wall in regards to physical evidence, however, Peter deciding that talking with the two strangers was certainly somewhere to start. Maybe they could shed some fresh light on what had happened.
Then there was O’Brien and the weird vibe he’d gotten from the sophomore during their last encounter. He refused to even think about the strange occurrence in the restroom. Peter’s previous impressions of Eric O’Brien seemed to be way off base, and that didn’t usually happen. As an undercover detective, it was imperative he was able to read people effectively and determine whether or not they were a threat. The fact he seemed to have badly misjudged O’Brien was unsettling. He’d never been so far off before. After he talked with Military Dad, he was definitely doing going to put in a request for O’Brien’s records.
He turned the engine off but paused before he opened the door. Pulling down the sunshade, he brushed his fingers across a picture of himself and a tall, red head woman. They were both smiling brightly, sitting by a fountain in Tompkins Square Park. Marianne Watts was her name, his now ex-girlfriend. She’d broken up with him after learning Peter would not be staying in New York for Christmas due to the case. There’d been lots of yelling, tears, and accusations thrown at him for over an hour that night before Marianne had stormed out of his apartment. Her final words before she’d slammed the door still echoed in his mind.
“Peter, if all you care about is the job, then go! But I’m not waiting around for you to figure out what really matters anymore. We’re through!”
Sometimes Peter wondered if anyone in the world understood how much he loved his job, how much it meant to him to help people. But that was neither here nor there. Pushing the sunshade back up, Peter climbed out.
Sheriff Wayne and his deputy, Charlie Pierce, were waiting for him in the lobby.
“Professor Matthews, thanks for coming down,” Sheriff Wayne greeted him, shaking his hand.
“Of course, sir.” First rule of going deep undercover was keeping that cover at all times, unless making contact with one’s handler. In this case, only Sheriff Wayne and his secretary, who also happened to be his wife, Lilly, knew who Peter really was.
“Now, Lilly said you were the one who reported this man as suspicious?”
“Yes, sir. I noticed him in Pike’s last night with a younger man, who I ran into on earlier campus today. Literally,” Peter admitted wryly.
“Hmm. Well, Ranger Travis found our guy when he was doing patrols. He noticed fresh tires tracks on the road up there and decided to check it out.” Wayne explained, as they walked three abreast down the hall. “Found the man knocked unconscious at the ramp. Looked like he slipped on some ice and fell back, hitting his head pretty hard. His ID says his name is John P. Jones. Illinois resident. We’re running a background check on him now.”
“You have a good eye, Professor Matthews,” Deputy Pierce complimented. “Jones was carrying a .45 and a sawed-off shot gun, plus three knives, a bag of salt, and a flask of water.”
Whoa. Military or not, that seemed a bit excessive, not to mention odd. Peter glanced at the two officers. “Why would he be so heavily armed?”
“Don’t know yet,” Wayne replied. “Probably for the same reason he was skulking around at a national military park.”
In other words, they had absolutely no clue. Not surprising given that the man had been found knocked out. Unfortunately, that meant they could get no answers until Mr. Jones woke up.
“Has the doctor told you anything?”
“Not yet,” Pierce replied, as the three came to a stop back in front of the desk. Wayne gestured to the nurse at the station, who promptly shook her head and kept talking on the phone.
“Look, Professor Matthews, I don’t want to keep you long. I’m sure you have assignments to prepare for the coming week.” Translation: Peter needed to keep working the case and looking for connections directly to the kidnappings. He nodded affirmative.
Sheriff Wayne tapped the counter, drawing the nurse’s attention. “Ma’am, would it be all right for the good professor to see Mr. Jones? Just a confirmation that he is the man we were looking for.”
The nurse bit her lip, before she nodded. “Only the professor, Sheriff. Dr. Cassidy is in charge of Mr. Jones’s case, and he does not like interruptions or distractions.” She continued, speaking directly to Peter. “Don’t ask any questions and stay out of the way. Five minutes, Professor. Room 214.”
Peter acknowledged her warning with the tip of his head and headed down the hall.
Mr. Jones was in the room bustling with activity: nurses going in and out, and a mullet-haired doctor barking orders. The detective kept a wide berth from them, moving to the window. At first there were too many nurses in the way, but finally they moved away enough for Peter to get a clear view of the man in the hospital bed.
He sighed and headed back.
Sheriff Wayne and Deputy Pierce were waiting expectedly by the nurses’ station.
“It’s him,” Peter confirmed quietly.
“You’re certain?” Sheriff Wayne asked.
“Absolutely.”
The sheriff and deputy exchanged glances. “Thanks for your time, Professor. We’ll give you a call if we need anything else.”
“Of course.”
~*~
His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets as he hurried down the walkway towards the Musselman Library. The sun was low in the sky and already the chill of the night filled the air. He would much prefer to be tracking down relevant leads for the case than checking up on some young con. Leaving it, however, when said con had a classified police file could prove to be more trouble then Peter wanted or needed. With Bad Boy Leather’s father in the hospital, he was gambling the young man wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. That left him enough time to check back at the library and see whether or not Bad Boy Leather had been there and what he had been up to.
The blast of heat nearly bowled Peter over as he walked in. Immediately he felt better as the warmth settled around him.
“Well, look whose back.”
Donna walked around from behind the desk, smiling brightly. He returned the smile, hands out to the side. “What can I say? You know how to make a man feel welcome, Donna.”
She laughed. “Thank you for saying so, young man. Now, you wish to look some more in the archives?”
Peter couldn’t quite hide his grimace. The elderly woman didn’t seem to mind, giving him a knowing look.
“Perhaps another time. Actually, I was wondering if you noticed a young man come in right after I left.”
“Oh yes. Tall, blonde, with pretty green eyes?”
“Not so sure about the pretty eyes,” was Peter’s mildly sardonic reply. “But, yeah, that’s him.”
The crow’s feet around Donna’s eyes and mouth deepened, her blue irises twinkling. “Is he a student of yours?”
“No,” Peter shook his head. “I ran into him when I left earlier this afternoon. Dropped all my papers.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Donna was immediately sympathetic. “He didn’t run off, did he?”
“No, he stayed and helped me.”
“Good.”
You would think, Peter thought grumpily. “But I checked my papers later and came up a file short. It’s not outside, so I believe he may have taken it.”
Satisfaction melted away to mixed disbelief and confusion. Donna crossed her arms. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t seem convinced. Peter chose his next words carefully. “I just want to talk with him and see about getting that file back. That’s all.”
It was a bit more serious then that, but he wasn’t going to share that fact. The young man had clearly charmed the librarian and pointing out he was a con man would certainly not get Peter any answers. Peter didn’t have grounds to arrest Bad Boy Leather anyway. Not if he wanted to keep his cover semi intact. He just needed to know why the young man had taken the police file in the first place instead of confronting him about it.
Donna sighed. “You just missed him. He’s been here all afternoon reading through recent newspapers and periodicals.”
“Do you know what he was looking for?” He asked, feigning innocent curiosity.
“No, but he did make several copies of some articles going back a couple months.” She gave him a shrewd look. “He’s not the student who told you about the Lost Creek Cutter, is he?”
Peter shook his head. “He’s not a student as far as I know.”
She hummed in response. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing else I can tell you, Professor. He left here about fifteen minutes ago, heading south towards the student parking lot if that helps.”
“Thanks, Donna.”
The librarian waved him off. “Think nothing of it. Just be nice to that boy now, you hear?”
Peter nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Back outside into the cold it was. Peter was nearly half way to the parking lot when his pager started beeping. He glanced at the number and immediately turned around, his stride lengthening. He was too late to catch the kid anyway.
The wind blew, the cold ripping through him. A glance to the west confirmed that the sun was making its final disappearance beyond the trees. A whole day gone, and so far no concrete leads in the case. As he kept walking, arms clamped to his side, head down, Peter really wished he could carry his cellular phone. His boss and supervisor, Lieutenant Reed however, had warned him that the use of a cellular phone was strictly for emergencies. College professors could not afford that kind of technology. It would blow his cover right out of the water. To compensate for the lack of cellular phone, Lieutenant Reed had arranged for a car phone to be installed in Peter’s truck.
Peter was quite happy when he clambered inside the truck cab, turning the ignition and cranking up the heat. Being a professor did have perks such as a parking lot much closer to the buildings then student parking. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number for the station.
“Peter, I have some new information on Jones,” Sheriff Wayne said without preamble.
“What is it, sir?”
“We were able to track his credit card to a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town. Apparently, the son checked out of the motel an hour before we got there. The room was completely clean. I’ve posted an officer at Mr. Jones door, but his son is still in the wind.”
Frowning, Peter massaged his forehead. “What do you think, Wayne? Bounty hunters?”
“Possibly,” the sheriff agreed. “But we won’t know for sure until Mr. Jones wakes up or we find his son.”
“Did the clerk give you anything?”
“Two things: Jones checked in Sunday night and paid for a week’s stay and the car is a cherry black 1967 Chevy Impala.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Peter hung up and let his head come to rest on the wheel. This case was getting more complicated by the hour. Finally, he sat up and put the truck in reverse.
Back
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Author: Roselani24
Genre: adventure, drama, horror
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A big thank you to my fantastic beta,laughtersmelody who read and re-read this story, offering endless encouragement and tips. You're awesome, girl! Also a big thank you to my artist,loki_scribe for the beautiful artwork!
Chapter 2
Tuesday January 10, 1995
“Good morning,” Peter greeted his small, early am class. There was a hummed sound of answers from the students. A quick scan revealed many half-mast eyes and numerous coffee cups sitting on the desks. He smiled, holding up his cup in a silent salute. He knew all too well, how waking up early at that age was tough after being up most of the night.
Fifteen minutes after seven, Peter started reading the roll and asking if there were any students on the waiting list or petitioning to join. By eight o’clock, he was reading the syllabus and explaining his expectations for the class. As he talked, Peter observed his students, letting the atmosphere generated by the individuals flood his senses, giving him all sorts of basic information. There was one student sitting near the back in particular that caught Peter’s attention. Eric O’Brien, the tenant living in the basement of the house.
The young man was oddly awake for the early hour, glancing around the room and fidgeting constantly. Peter decided to keep an eye on the young man, in case the strange behavior proved to be more than it seemed.
By the time his next class started, Peter had put O’Brien out of his mind, fully focusing on getting through the students’ names and reviewing the syllabus again.
He had just dismissed his second class for the morning when a familiar face approached.
“Professor Matthews?”
“Yes?”
Eric O’Brien shuffled his feet, one hand playing with the strap of his backpack. “I was just wondering…why the syllabus is incomplete.”
Peter blinked, blindsided by the question. He shot the younger man a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”
“You have written here that we’re going to be discussing the New Hard Times and what happened here locally, but there’s no mention of the Lost Creek Cutter.”
“Who?” Peter asked, startled. He’d never heard of a killer by that name. And what was with O’Brien calling the Great Depression the New Hard Times?
O’Brien’s face reddened, lip curling in a faint snarl.
“How can you not know the Lost Creek Cutter? You’re a history professor!”
“Now hold on,” Peter said, holding his hand up. O’Brien cut him off, waving his hands angrily.
“You’re just like the rest of them. Claiming to know history, but you know nothing! Nothing! Look at the disappearances recently and the murder earlier last month! Just like the Lost Creek-“
“That’s enough Mr. O’Brien.” Peter commanded, using his officer voice. He drew himself up to his full height, hands coming to rest on his hips. “We can discuss this civilly or you can leave right now.”
O’Brien glared hotly. Without another word, the dark haired young man spun around and stormed out. Peter watched him go silently. Shaking his head, he started packing up his bag. He stopped abruptly, resting both of his hands on the desk and exhaling deeply. What did O’Brien mean the disappearances were just like the Lost Creek Cutter’s? And why did he have such a bad feeling about the whole thing?
Looks like he’d be hitting the library for some research.
~*~
One of the benefits of working on a college campus such as Gettysburg College was access to a fully funded, extensive library like the Musselman Library.
Peter ran his finger along the spines of the library books. He had never heard any mention of the Lost Creek Cutter before. That was odd in itself, but even odder was that, so far, he had found no mention of the Cutter in any of the books.
None of these books looked very promising. Maybe he should try the new computer database. That would certainly speed things up.
As he walked through the rows, Peter pondered O’Brien’s outburst. From his previous observations, Eric O’Brien was just a normal college kid. Where had the anger come from?
More importantly, why had he called the Depression the New Hard Times? Newspapers had called the early years of the 1930’s by that name, but that had later given way to the Great Depression. No one used that name nowadays. Not unless they lived through those turbulent years, but even that possibility seemed highly unlikely. Then, there’d been O’Brien’s comparison of the recent disappearances and murder. Surely there must be something about the Lost Creek Cutter somewhere!
Peter sat down in front of a computer, fingers poised over the keyboard. The Lost Creek Cutter must have been around during the Depression. That was where he would begin his search. He started typing. Ten minutes later Peter was no wiser on who the Lost Creek Cutter was. He’d even broadened the search! Nothing.
He leaned back, rubbing his hand across his face. That seemed to be his luck lately. Always finding nothing, when there really should be something!
“Hey, there, sweetie. Not finding what you’re looking for?”
Peter turned. “Hi, Mrs. Miller.”
The petite, silver-haired librarian clucked her tongue. “Now, now, Professor Matthews. Call me Donna. All that missus stuff makes me feel old.”
She grinned saucily and winked. Peter couldn’t help smiling back, a low chuckle escaping.
Part-time faculty librarian Donna Miller may have been well over sixty, but she certainly had not slowed down. She still dressed smartly, although probably less formally then when she worked in the Office of Admissions in Eisenhower House, and volunteered at college events on a regular basis. College kids were her passion, and she took a personal interest in the students attending the university. President Hummel advised him to ask Miller if he had any further questions about Miss Stewart or any campus activity, because almost without fail, she would know something.
“All right, Donna.”
“Better,” she approved with a grin, crossing her arms across her chest. “Now tell me, Professor, why you look near ready to pitch the computer across my library.”
He was immediately sheepish. “That obvious, huh?”
Donna laughed quietly, patting his shoulder kindly. “Only to someone who has had the same thought on occasion. Infernal machines! More trouble then they’re worth sometimes.”
Peter hummed in agreement. “Yeah. A student of mine asked about what we’re going to be studying during the Great Depression. He mentioned someone called the Lost Creek Cutter that he believes I should have been included in my curriculum. But I’ve never heard of this Cutter.” He waved a hand at the computer. “And according to this infernal machine, there is no serial killer by that nickname.”
Donna was frowning when he finished. She tapped her chin, the necklace around her neck tinkling. “The Lost Creek Cutter? Hmmm.” Shaking her head, “Can’t say I’m familiar with that name. Have you tried our newspaper archives? You may have some luck there.”
“No, not yet. This library has a newspaper archive?”
Most libraries had a section where newspapers were bound in volumes going back maybe twenty-five years at best. The older newspapers were normally too fragile at that point to be kept in a volume without crumbling to dust or ripping from public handling. Those normally were found at the town historical society.
“Of course,” Donna declared proudly. “We have a copy of every newspaper ever printed here in Gettysburg dating back before Civil War.”
Both eyebrows shot up. Impressive. Donna waved her hand. “Come with me, Professor. I’ll show you.”
Obediently, Peter followed her to the back of the library through a door marked “Personnel and Faculty Only”. With a quick right turn, and down several stairs, Donna led Peter into a dimly lit corridor with a four doors. She walked to the closet door on the left, pulling out a faculty issue key.
“This is where all our newspapers are being kept at the moment. But the Board has plans to add another wing to the library where all the newspapers and historical works will be moved to so that the students will be free to access them,” she explained. Donna gave him a wry look. “Until then, we have this.”
She pushed the door open and flicked the switch. There were rows and rows of rickety metal storage shelves, each inch of space filled with large dusty books and yellowed papers in clear plastic coverings or laminations to preserve the oldest pieces. The overhead light bulb was uncovered and shone dully, casting a rather eerie yellow glow about the room. On the far side of the room there was a wooden desk at least as old as the metal shelves covered in plastic.
The elder woman took in his shocked expression. “I know it doesn’t look like much, Professor Matthews, but you may find some answers here.”
“Yeah,” Peter choked out as calmly as he could. “Maybe I will. Thank you, Donna.”
“You’re most welcome, young man. Good luck.”
Left alone, Peter glanced around the room again and sighed. Well, he’d better get started.
Two hours later Peter was sitting at the rickety desk, carefully turning pages of yet another book of newspapers from the 1930’s. This one was from 1932. The hardest part about the newspapers volumes wasn’t looking through the books themselves, but rather finding them. A couple volumes showed water damage so Peter assumed wherever the volumes had previously been stored, the room had leaked. The end result was the volumes were packed and stacked in random order, with no rhyme or reason to where they were placed.
Beep! Beep!
Peter jumped. What the?-Oh, his pager. He glanced down, reading the number. Why was that familiar…Oh blast it! The faculty meeting at two o’clock!
He jumped up, knocking the old metal chair over with a crash. Cringing, Peter quickly grabbed his briefcase and raced out the door. He’d come back later and put everything away. Right now, getting to the meeting was more important.
As he jogged up the basement steps Peter silently cursed his forgetfulness. He’d been so caught up in the case and the strange encounter with O’Brien, he’d failed to keep track of the time. Great way to maintain his cover!
Waving his thanks to Donna, he rushed out the library doors. He turned the corner on the walk that led to Wiendensall Hall. The next moment he was staggering from the force of impact, his briefcase thrown from his hand, papers scattered.
“Geez man, watch where you’re going!”
“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, grabbing his briefcase and quickly began stuffing all his papers back in side. Horror filled him when he realized that the police files had fallen out too. He heard a sigh and then a pair of worn boots stepped in his line of vision.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just, I’m late for a meeting and this is my first week-“
“Dude, its okay.” The stranger cut off his ramble, kneeling down to help pick up the mess. Peter glanced up to thank him and froze. It was Mr. Bad Boy Leather from Pike’s last night!
“Uh, thanks,” he stuttered, accepting the proffered papers and files. In the bright sunlight, it was much easier to see the young man. Dirty blonde cut in short military style, strong but fine facial features, and sharp green eyes peered at him curiously. He was younger then Peter initially thought last night. Only nineteen at most, Peter guessed. A freshman maybe? He was carrying a tattered olive green book bag that seemed heavy with books.
“Professor Peter Matthews.” He extended his hand. The young man accepted, his grip strong and firm as he simultaneously pulled Peter to his feet.
“Paul Jones.”
He studied the young man, his curiosity burning. A glance at his watch informed him, however, he was not only late, but extremely late. He groaned. “Well, thank you Mr. Jones for your assistance. I do apologize for running you down, but I have to go.”
“Hey, no worries, Professor.” Jones said easily. “See you around.”
Hours later, Peter sat slumped in his closet of an office. He’d arrived thirty minutes late to the meeting. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if he were actually working on the case. O’Brien’s comments, he realized in retrospect, had sent him digging in the wrong direction and effectively distracted him. Rookie mistake. Then there was the question of whether or not Peter really considered O’Brien a suspect in the case. The young man certainly behaved oddly. But he was no stranger than Paul Jones. All in all, Peter had been sufficiently distracted even when he was at the meeting.
Sighing, Peter opened his satchel to fix his papers after his run-in with Jones. Several pages were crumbled, some damp from melted snow, and some slightly torn. He laid them out on his desk, trying to determine the worst of the damage. Something was missing.
Peter’s eyes widened and he quickly flipped through the papers and folders again. He checked the bag, but there was nothing left inside.
Mentally he reviewed his departure from the library and his lips thinned. Peter slammed his fist down on the desk. Bad Boy Leather had stolen the police report on Fisher and Hernandez!
~*~
“I’m sorry, Professor. There’s no one listed here by that name.”
Peter wasn’t surprised, but it was worth a shot. He politely thanked the woman from attendance and hung up. So “Paul Jones” was not a student at the college. Peter tapped his pen, thinking. The young man had an interesting accent, a mix of Texan and Californian. It was highly unlikely he was local. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask GPD to check their records.
He punched in the number to Sheriff Wayne’s private office phone.
“Adam’s County Sheriff’s office. This is Lilly. How may I help you?”
“Hey Lilly, it’s me. I need to talk with the sheriff.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s indisposed.” The tone was polite, but Peter caught an undercurrent of frustration in her voice. He sighed. “Will he be available anytime soon?”
“Not likely. Stewart called.”
Ah. Peter winced. That explained a few things.
“All right, could you take a message for me?”
“Of course.”
Peter quickly explained what he wanted and why. At the last minute, he added what he knew about the con’s supposed father. Hopefully if the police found one, they could find the other. Lilly promised to let the Sheriff know as soon as he could escape the Stewarts. “Thanks.”
He dropped the phone back on the receiver and rocked backwards. What in heaven’s name was going on? First O’Brien, now this punk stealing police files. But Peter didn’t understand why.
“Professor Matthews?”
Speak of the devil-O’Brien peaked in the door. “A moment?”
“Sure, Mr. O’Brien. Come in.” Peter waved him in. How could his day get any worse?
The young man shuffled in, head down. He stopped in front of the desk, shifting from foot to foot, his shaggy bangs hiding his eyes. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier today. I was out of line.”
“Apology accepted,” Peter replied gently. In a firmer tone, he said, “Next time, just explain what’s wrong. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter nodded. “Good. Now, I’m curious. Who was this Lost Creek Cutter?”
“Oh, um, just someone my…grandfather used to tell stories about.” O’Brien shrugged, sheepish. “Got really caught up in them, I guess. Believed they were real.”
“So, they were just stories your grandfather told you growing up?” Peter’s brow furrowed. Who told his grandson stories about serial killers? Assuming that’s what the Lost Creek Cutter really was. O’Brien’s apology seemed sincere, but saying the Lost Creek Cutter was fictional seemed a bit of a stretch. But then, Peter hadn’t been able to find any mention of a killer by that name, so maybe it wasn’t real after all. Not that he was going to admit he’d spent his lunch hour digging through cluttered newspapers in a cold basement. Still, the fact O’Brien started to compare the recent kidnappings and murder to the Lost Creek Cutter nagged him. Something was off here.
“Yes, Professor. That’s all. I just finally realized they were merely tall tales.” Something in O’Brien voice set off Peter’s inner alarm bells. He remained casual however, keeping his calm and curious exterior. If O’Brien really was mixed up in something, it would be a mistake on Peter’s part to tip him off.
“Ah. Well, thank you for stopping by.”
Peter shook O’Brien’s hand. It was like dipping his hand in ice water. He covered the sensation by stuffing his hand in his pant pocket as casually as possible.
“Good day, Professor.”
The ice raced up his arm, seeping into the very marrow of his bones.
“Good day.”
Peter waited until O’Brien’s steps completely faded away before he darted out of his office and down the hall to the restroom. Turning on the faucet, he put his hand underneath the warm water and breathed a sigh of relief.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Peter glanced around the bathroom, but there was no one there. He was alone.
“Yeow!” Peter yelped, pulling his hand up to his chest. What the heck? The water went from warm to freezing! His breathe frosted on the mirror and Peter stepped back, fear rolling in his belly. What-? The thought didn’t finish forming before the lights suddenly flickered and the temperature of the whole room dropped. Peter swallowed in a desperate attempt to moisten his mouth. What was going on?
A splotch appeared on the mirror in front of him, growing, shaping itself into something like a human form. Peter watched with mixed fascination and horror, unable to tear his eyes away.
He inhaled sharply, the pale face of a young man no older then twenty-five peering at him. Peter just barely noticed the state of his-its? -clothing: torn, sullied Civil War era soldier jacket and hat, too caught up in the hideous ruby gaze. The blue lips moved without making a sound, but Peter’s brain was frozen and unable to decipher the words.
The lights flickered again and suddenly it was gone. Peter did a 360-degree turn; chest heaving as he slowly realized everything was normal again. The faucet was still running, steam slowly rising up from the sink. No more ice on the mirrors. No flickering lights. No more cadavers with red eyes looking at him. Just a normal men’s restroom. It looked exactly the way it had when he’d walked in five minutes ago.
Hastily, Peter slapped the faucet off, fighting to control the tremors racing through his arms. It was nothing. Just a hallucination or waking nightmare. It wasn’t real.
Despite the assurances he came up with, Peter walked as fast he could out the door and back to his office.
His phone was ringing. Taking a deep breath in and slowly letting it out, Peter straightened his shoulders.
When he answered, he was once more in control. “Hello?”
“A man was found unconscious in the Devil’s Den parking lot by a park ranger. Took a nasty blow to the back of the head, and EMTs say his left ankle is broken,” Lilly Wayne reported without preamble.
Peter wondered aloud, “And why does this concern me?”
Lilly’s sounded entirely too smug for Peter’s liking. “He matches your description of the military guy you saw in Pike’s last night to a tee.”
“Where are they taking him?” Peter demanded, grabbing his jacket.
“Gettysburg Hospital. ETA five minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Peter drove his old pick-up into the hospital parking lot. He parked and let the engine idle with the heat on, considering his options. Right now, he had no proof to connect Military Dad and his son, Bad Boy Leather aka ‘Paul Jones’ to the kidnappings and the murder. All he had was a crime scene report for Joseph Hernandez and Melissa Fisher that had gone missing after an unexpected collision with Jones. As far as Peter knew, there was no other connection. Since he’d hit a wall in regards to physical evidence, however, Peter deciding that talking with the two strangers was certainly somewhere to start. Maybe they could shed some fresh light on what had happened.
Then there was O’Brien and the weird vibe he’d gotten from the sophomore during their last encounter. He refused to even think about the strange occurrence in the restroom. Peter’s previous impressions of Eric O’Brien seemed to be way off base, and that didn’t usually happen. As an undercover detective, it was imperative he was able to read people effectively and determine whether or not they were a threat. The fact he seemed to have badly misjudged O’Brien was unsettling. He’d never been so far off before. After he talked with Military Dad, he was definitely doing going to put in a request for O’Brien’s records.
He turned the engine off but paused before he opened the door. Pulling down the sunshade, he brushed his fingers across a picture of himself and a tall, red head woman. They were both smiling brightly, sitting by a fountain in Tompkins Square Park. Marianne Watts was her name, his now ex-girlfriend. She’d broken up with him after learning Peter would not be staying in New York for Christmas due to the case. There’d been lots of yelling, tears, and accusations thrown at him for over an hour that night before Marianne had stormed out of his apartment. Her final words before she’d slammed the door still echoed in his mind.
“Peter, if all you care about is the job, then go! But I’m not waiting around for you to figure out what really matters anymore. We’re through!”
Sometimes Peter wondered if anyone in the world understood how much he loved his job, how much it meant to him to help people. But that was neither here nor there. Pushing the sunshade back up, Peter climbed out.
Sheriff Wayne and his deputy, Charlie Pierce, were waiting for him in the lobby.
“Professor Matthews, thanks for coming down,” Sheriff Wayne greeted him, shaking his hand.
“Of course, sir.” First rule of going deep undercover was keeping that cover at all times, unless making contact with one’s handler. In this case, only Sheriff Wayne and his secretary, who also happened to be his wife, Lilly, knew who Peter really was.
“Now, Lilly said you were the one who reported this man as suspicious?”
“Yes, sir. I noticed him in Pike’s last night with a younger man, who I ran into on earlier campus today. Literally,” Peter admitted wryly.
“Hmm. Well, Ranger Travis found our guy when he was doing patrols. He noticed fresh tires tracks on the road up there and decided to check it out.” Wayne explained, as they walked three abreast down the hall. “Found the man knocked unconscious at the ramp. Looked like he slipped on some ice and fell back, hitting his head pretty hard. His ID says his name is John P. Jones. Illinois resident. We’re running a background check on him now.”
“You have a good eye, Professor Matthews,” Deputy Pierce complimented. “Jones was carrying a .45 and a sawed-off shot gun, plus three knives, a bag of salt, and a flask of water.”
Whoa. Military or not, that seemed a bit excessive, not to mention odd. Peter glanced at the two officers. “Why would he be so heavily armed?”
“Don’t know yet,” Wayne replied. “Probably for the same reason he was skulking around at a national military park.”
In other words, they had absolutely no clue. Not surprising given that the man had been found knocked out. Unfortunately, that meant they could get no answers until Mr. Jones woke up.
“Has the doctor told you anything?”
“Not yet,” Pierce replied, as the three came to a stop back in front of the desk. Wayne gestured to the nurse at the station, who promptly shook her head and kept talking on the phone.
“Look, Professor Matthews, I don’t want to keep you long. I’m sure you have assignments to prepare for the coming week.” Translation: Peter needed to keep working the case and looking for connections directly to the kidnappings. He nodded affirmative.
Sheriff Wayne tapped the counter, drawing the nurse’s attention. “Ma’am, would it be all right for the good professor to see Mr. Jones? Just a confirmation that he is the man we were looking for.”
The nurse bit her lip, before she nodded. “Only the professor, Sheriff. Dr. Cassidy is in charge of Mr. Jones’s case, and he does not like interruptions or distractions.” She continued, speaking directly to Peter. “Don’t ask any questions and stay out of the way. Five minutes, Professor. Room 214.”
Peter acknowledged her warning with the tip of his head and headed down the hall.
Mr. Jones was in the room bustling with activity: nurses going in and out, and a mullet-haired doctor barking orders. The detective kept a wide berth from them, moving to the window. At first there were too many nurses in the way, but finally they moved away enough for Peter to get a clear view of the man in the hospital bed.
He sighed and headed back.
Sheriff Wayne and Deputy Pierce were waiting expectedly by the nurses’ station.
“It’s him,” Peter confirmed quietly.
“You’re certain?” Sheriff Wayne asked.
“Absolutely.”
The sheriff and deputy exchanged glances. “Thanks for your time, Professor. We’ll give you a call if we need anything else.”
“Of course.”
~*~
His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets as he hurried down the walkway towards the Musselman Library. The sun was low in the sky and already the chill of the night filled the air. He would much prefer to be tracking down relevant leads for the case than checking up on some young con. Leaving it, however, when said con had a classified police file could prove to be more trouble then Peter wanted or needed. With Bad Boy Leather’s father in the hospital, he was gambling the young man wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. That left him enough time to check back at the library and see whether or not Bad Boy Leather had been there and what he had been up to.
The blast of heat nearly bowled Peter over as he walked in. Immediately he felt better as the warmth settled around him.
“Well, look whose back.”
Donna walked around from behind the desk, smiling brightly. He returned the smile, hands out to the side. “What can I say? You know how to make a man feel welcome, Donna.”
She laughed. “Thank you for saying so, young man. Now, you wish to look some more in the archives?”
Peter couldn’t quite hide his grimace. The elderly woman didn’t seem to mind, giving him a knowing look.
“Perhaps another time. Actually, I was wondering if you noticed a young man come in right after I left.”
“Oh yes. Tall, blonde, with pretty green eyes?”
“Not so sure about the pretty eyes,” was Peter’s mildly sardonic reply. “But, yeah, that’s him.”
The crow’s feet around Donna’s eyes and mouth deepened, her blue irises twinkling. “Is he a student of yours?”
“No,” Peter shook his head. “I ran into him when I left earlier this afternoon. Dropped all my papers.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Donna was immediately sympathetic. “He didn’t run off, did he?”
“No, he stayed and helped me.”
“Good.”
You would think, Peter thought grumpily. “But I checked my papers later and came up a file short. It’s not outside, so I believe he may have taken it.”
Satisfaction melted away to mixed disbelief and confusion. Donna crossed her arms. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t seem convinced. Peter chose his next words carefully. “I just want to talk with him and see about getting that file back. That’s all.”
It was a bit more serious then that, but he wasn’t going to share that fact. The young man had clearly charmed the librarian and pointing out he was a con man would certainly not get Peter any answers. Peter didn’t have grounds to arrest Bad Boy Leather anyway. Not if he wanted to keep his cover semi intact. He just needed to know why the young man had taken the police file in the first place instead of confronting him about it.
Donna sighed. “You just missed him. He’s been here all afternoon reading through recent newspapers and periodicals.”
“Do you know what he was looking for?” He asked, feigning innocent curiosity.
“No, but he did make several copies of some articles going back a couple months.” She gave him a shrewd look. “He’s not the student who told you about the Lost Creek Cutter, is he?”
Peter shook his head. “He’s not a student as far as I know.”
She hummed in response. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing else I can tell you, Professor. He left here about fifteen minutes ago, heading south towards the student parking lot if that helps.”
“Thanks, Donna.”
The librarian waved him off. “Think nothing of it. Just be nice to that boy now, you hear?”
Peter nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Back outside into the cold it was. Peter was nearly half way to the parking lot when his pager started beeping. He glanced at the number and immediately turned around, his stride lengthening. He was too late to catch the kid anyway.
The wind blew, the cold ripping through him. A glance to the west confirmed that the sun was making its final disappearance beyond the trees. A whole day gone, and so far no concrete leads in the case. As he kept walking, arms clamped to his side, head down, Peter really wished he could carry his cellular phone. His boss and supervisor, Lieutenant Reed however, had warned him that the use of a cellular phone was strictly for emergencies. College professors could not afford that kind of technology. It would blow his cover right out of the water. To compensate for the lack of cellular phone, Lieutenant Reed had arranged for a car phone to be installed in Peter’s truck.
Peter was quite happy when he clambered inside the truck cab, turning the ignition and cranking up the heat. Being a professor did have perks such as a parking lot much closer to the buildings then student parking. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number for the station.
“Peter, I have some new information on Jones,” Sheriff Wayne said without preamble.
“What is it, sir?”
“We were able to track his credit card to a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town. Apparently, the son checked out of the motel an hour before we got there. The room was completely clean. I’ve posted an officer at Mr. Jones door, but his son is still in the wind.”
Frowning, Peter massaged his forehead. “What do you think, Wayne? Bounty hunters?”
“Possibly,” the sheriff agreed. “But we won’t know for sure until Mr. Jones wakes up or we find his son.”
“Did the clerk give you anything?”
“Two things: Jones checked in Sunday night and paid for a week’s stay and the car is a cherry black 1967 Chevy Impala.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Peter hung up and let his head come to rest on the wheel. This case was getting more complicated by the hour. Finally, he sat up and put the truck in reverse.
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