Short Ride to Hell

SHORT RIDE TO HELL

By

Rodd Clark

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2014 Rodd Clark

Cover Art: Nathan Mark Phillips 2014 ©

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the publisher or author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely co-incidental.

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COVER ART BY PERMISSION – Artist Nathan Mark Phillips©

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For inquiries contact Nathan Mark at info@nathanmarkphillips.com

Short Ride to Hell

Copyright 2014 © by Rodd Clark

The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too…but there will be no special hurry

A Farewell to Arms (1929) Ernest Hemingway

CHAPTER ONE

FOR BRANTLEY COLTON HIS crusade was over. There was nothing in the abyss left for him. Whatever he had once believed in had become a lie. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, just a long highway ahead, a dark road without signposts to direct him. Where would he go from there? The finality in his soul belied some joy in the closing moments. It was over, he could die now…but he couldn’t die happy. It had only been a few hours since he had put the Winter Glade Motel in his rearview, but it seemed longer. Colton drove the desolate highway but felt tired and needed sleep. The air conditioning was on high to fend off the humid Florida evening, the air against his face was the only thing preventing him from drifting into dangerous sleep, even so he contemplated the series of events that had him traveling down 1-75 in the middle of the night…with the blood stains of the murdered man still present on his shirt. He had used an alias to register at the motel, paid in cash, but feared something had been left behind which could tie him to the murder. He needed time to finish the job at hand and his sloppy second-guessing had placed him in peril. Colton had never been one for prayer, but felt like it was a good time to drop to his knees, to confess his crime and ask for forgiveness. Not that it would have done any good for him.

Colton was running from the mistakes made when he had savagely killed a man by striking him continuously over the head with his flashlight. This wasn’t his first cold-blooded murder; there had been another a few weeks before in Georgia. After being holed up in Florida for three weeks tracking his hunted quarry, there had been clarity to his mission. He had taken up residence at the motel weeks before, the clerk’s name was Dunwoody, a thin man with thick glasses, a chain smoker who always reeked of stale cigarette smoke that even a smoker like Colton had to turn his nose away. Colton disliked Dunwoody, and was curt with him when he came in every Friday just to pay for another weeks stay. At least Dunwoody never asked questions. He liked it when people didn’t pry and desk clerks are probably the saints of discretion in towns like this one. Colton chose the Winter Glade because it was off the main road, inconspicuous, and cheap. After checking in, he threw his duffle on the mattress and inspected the card laying on the older model television to see if the motel amenities might include a porn channel. He then made a pot of coffee with the dusty coffeepot the Glade Motel believed was their greatest perk for travelers. A coffee in hand, he pulled some crumpled newspaper from his duffle and opened a slightly outdated HP laptop and signed in. cognizant of his process Colton began to research for local news channels, finding their main sites he scanned for pertinent articles of missing people, using the keywords, Tulane and murder. He chose a link which opened AVI news feeds from a local news channel and watched it in its entirety. The reporter told of a local girl in her twenties who had gone missing just two days before. She spoke about frantic parents and police having no leads and Colton listened while she beseeched the public’s assistance in finding the missing woman. The report ended with sad parents imploring for any help that anyone could give. He grabbed a pen and wrote the girls name on the top of the newspaper clipping – Monica Tulane.

Already quick on the trail of the perpetrator, Colton had crossed several states. His own personal tragedy began in Richmond, Kentucky. He had started making headway when he learned of the abduction and death of the girl in Tennessee. After missing his mark there he found his way to Georgia, then Florida for the latest in a line of murders. He did a quick internet search on the Tulane woman .and found her Facebook site. There he was able to get information about where she graduated high school and when. The latest posts were riddled with concern; each one from her family and friends was a grief-induced pleading of love and hope that they might see her again. Colton suspected she was already dead. If he was going to find her abductor before he struck again – he had to find out where the woman had been abducted and work backward from there. Colton had tracked the man’s movements to Florida. The last abduction was Knoxville, TN; police would not have yet made the connection that the perpetrator was traveling along the Southeastern corridor highways. He was setting up in small towns and searching for victims that suited his tastes and lying in wait for an opportunity to act.

She’s blonde and young, he thought.

She is missing and fits the profile. His last abduction was blonde and young, a little younger than Monica. The prior abduction was the fourth victim spanning three states, Colton knew by that time the FBI task force had already been assigned. It had begun in Middletown, Ohio with the Greggson victim, and then moved to Richmond, Kentucky for the murder of his Virginia, then to the Groff woman in Tennessee and the bartender in Georgia, now he sat in Florida under the gun with the Tulane abduction. Brantley Colton already knew John was on his trail. If you said anything about John Reston, it would have to include the word tenacity.

Reston was an experienced profiler for the FBI, he had tracked down earlier killers with more prominent crimes than Colton’s, but somehow he had become a prize-jewel for Reston, unattainable. Reston had gotten a hard-on for Colton early on. He was making it his mission and Colton knew sooner rather than later Reston would cross his path, and wanted to complete his crusade before the two met. To further the investigation along he needed to make some face-time with those who knew the Tulane woman. Colton stripped, showered and dressed to go and meet some strangers. He knew he would have to screw on a look of true humility and genuine sincerity, a believable, affable face, in the presence of the Tulane family or Monica’s friends.

After grabbing the keys to his Mercury Cougar and the duffle bag he headed out. Colton made it a practice to carry the bag at all times. Being a wanted felon meant being ready when circumstances might force you into the shadows. It was this edge of anticipation and dread that had kept him one step ahead of those chasing him, it was a part of his character that he liked and loathed at the same time.

***

Now on the highway he headed in the direction of the Bonita Springs, where the girl had been abducted. There, he hoped her friends; the last to see her might be able offer something in the way of his next lead. He remembered the reporter saying that Monica worked at a bed and bath boutique in the center of town; he would track that down, after talking to the grief-stricken parents.

As he drove thoughts rambled around in his head, he needed to work the details of everything he had uncovered. He knew that the girl had to be taken after work in a dark parking lot, or maybe the kidnapper had traveled the same road she drove home every day.

***

In reality Monica had just left a JC Penny store on a warm Saturday afternoon. She had stopped in after work and decided to treat herself with a new top for a much deserved evening out with the girls and tentatively planned for Sunday night. This would be one day before the police would have believed her to go missing. It was in the light of afternoon, while dropping her bags into the backseat of her car that the man would come up behind her and grabs her with a chloroform soaked rag and took her. He gingerly laid her into the backseat of her own vehicle. No one saw her taken. The man watched her purchase the blouse, and made a mental note that she paid in cash. There could not be an item from a JC Penny store appearing on her credit or debit card statement showing as her last activity. This careful attention to detail was how he was able to grab the girls without being caught. Driving around the parking lot with particular attention to where any cameras were posted on the light poles, watching the cars coming in and going out. He was cautious in his meticulous considerations. One false step could spell disaster when you are planning to steal a person. With Monica lying unconscious in the rear seat, he grabbed her purse, found her keys and drove casually out of the parking lot and headed west. He needed to find a spot he liked, one away from prying eyes.

***

As Colton reached the city limits he grabbed a cigarette and smoked his last before meeting her parents. He mapped the location with his phone, one that he had purchased using an alias. He always worked out the details ahead of time.

He found the bungalow-style home of the Tulane’s from the address painted on the curb and pulled over. He grabbed a notepad and a mini-cassette recorder from the glove box. If he was going to play the part of a reporter, he needed the accoutrements. Everything had become such an illusion to him in the last few years. He walked up to the door and knocked quietly until a woman in her late forties or early fifties answered the door. She was obviously the mother. She was put together nicely but with a haggard face. This was undoubtedly because she needed to look well dressed for those coming and going to offer condolences and support.

But it was equally obvious her nights were spent worrying and trying not to believe the worst.

Mrs. Tulane? Colton asked.

Yes, how can I help you? She was quiet, but there belied a strength. She was hopeful but prudent that the stranger did not appear at her door to offer some terrible news.

I am sorry to bother you at this time, I am James Denton Colton was good at lying, and the name was a common alias, one he used many times before.

I am from the Ft. Myer’s Courier, I thought if I could get a few minutes of your time, we could run another story on your lovely daughter…the more readers we get the word out to means that many more eyes, helping in the search.

Colton knew every lie and every step to get others to assist him in his investigation. She stepped back and offered entrance.

Yes, I suppose you’re right…I can spare a few minutes. I have some pictures of Monica here on the table; I expected that I would need all the photos of her I could find quickly. I think different pictures help with different looks and anything that could help…well, you know.

I do, Mrs. Tulane, that’s good thinking Colton slid past her into the foyer. Is Mr. Tulane here, would he like to join us?

No, I’m afraid David is at work, I made him go, he was driving us all crazy, and I had to force him out the door. I know he’s better when his mind is on other things. Of course, that’s pretty hard to do give the situation; I know it’s hard for me. Her words trailed off like her thoughts.

Naturally, Colton offered. He tried to envision himself as one of those ghouls working at a funeral parlor, always seemingly innocuous souls, helpful and supportive of grief-stricken loved ones, walking around clasping their own hands. Bowing and subservient, kind yet always trying to quietly move the grieved through the steps necessary to get his job done, this was the persona he wanted to portray.

I wanted to offer a little more to our readers of who Monica is as a person, then give them details on the last day she was seen…maybe to jog someone’s memory of seeing her, no issue is too small you understand. Just anything to help track Monica would be great. Can you tell me the last day you saw her?

Well that would have been Friday, I stopped into KitchenWorx on Friday and she was working, I just stopped in to say hi you understand. She works there you know…that cute little kitchenware store on Cypress, right next to the Chase Bank? But it was only for a minute, I was out running errands and it had been a couple of days before that she had come by the house. A young pretty girl has a lot on her plate these days.

So Friday, I thought the police said she was seen on Sunday? At least that’s what I thought we had reported …at some point.

No…I think the police thought that earlier, but she worked on Saturday, she works most weekends. I think they thought she had spoken with one of her friends on Sunday…I’m really not sure. But I talked with her Friday, she seemed like she was in fine spirits, didn’t say anything about any plans she had for the weekend though.

Colton steered the conversation towards Monica’s personality. It was a way to get Mrs. Tulane to ramble on about how good and responsible her daughter was. How she knew the importance of keeping in touch with her family, and answering her phone. Mrs. Tulane would drift away as she described her missing daughter, grief and worry her biggest distraction.

Colton pretended to take notes, sympathetically. This gave him time to think about the next step in his search. The girl had gone missing somewhere after work on Saturday despite what the police had reported. Unless one of her friends could verify any contact with her after work, or on Sunday, then the next step was obvious, the boutique she worked at. Maybe someone could offer something as to where she was headed. He knew he needed to get into her apartment, or access to her phone records, but those would be out of reach or guarded by police and crime scene investigators. Not that he hadn’t broken into a window or snapped his share of police tape from a few doors in his life. After going through a lot of pretense and acting out his part as Denton, he thanked the grief-stricken woman, then mumbled his support and assurance that Monica would turn up shortly in good health and spirits. He drove away and headed downtown in the direction of KitchenWorx, he needed to pull off the same ruse with the manager and employees of the store and then see where it took him. It would be a long afternoon.

***

While Colton worked on finding Monica’s abductor, John Reston was working on finding Brantley Colton. Reston’s main office was located in Baltimore, but he lived on the road. He checked in with every FBI branch office and worked mostly from desks they provided, but moreover from cheap diners, tables littered with his notes and laptop, or from beds of inexpensive motels also strewn with papers, and even from the front seat of his black government issued Pontiac. He was a vagabond, but comfortable in the life. Since he had no immediate family he had no reason to be home by 6:30 for a plate of dinner or pets and kids scrambling under foot. His lifestyle was conducive for little else but a traveling salesman or a profiler for the FBI.

John had joined the FBI when he was 29, 17 years ago and had worked up a degree of success, climbed the ladder surpassing his supervisors on more than one occasion. His demeanor and reputation were a little off-putting, plus the gruff way of handling coworkers meant that his self-imposed exile on the road was a welcome relief to his associates. He had made a name for himself by his work on the Devlin case a few years before. Jimmy Wayne Devlin was a sexual psychopath with sadist features, who had raped at least 6 boys in the Wilmington area before John had acquired his scent.

He had used the skill of victim profiling to build a suspect pool, and located the murdering rapist by putting his eyes on where he would strike next. This gambit paid off when Devlin was spotted under his surveillance, tracked down and arrested, all while he was chatting up another possible victim. That arrest and the eventual identification by witnesses would be enough to close the case. He was proud of that arrest. The light from the cameraman’s equipment and the respect in the young, attractive reporter’s eyes meant that with a few more of those he could either retire from the agency and write books on his life’s work, or point his gaze towards a higher OPS position. Or quite possibly even slip into politics; something he thought he might be good at when he played out the prospect in his mind. He was afforded more opportunity with each capture. But right now he was hunting one in particular and he didn’t have a name for his suspect, just a feeling of instinct learned from 17 years and a good deal of effort on his part.

Reston was interviewing possible witnesses, something he had done a thousand times before. But John could not help but scratch at that nagging itch that said he might be looking for more than his killer-suspect. While questioning a shaggy youth behind the counter at a full service stop frequented by long-haul drivers, it came as a surprise when the young man seemed to almost expect John’s line of questioning before it had left the agents mouth. Smiling back the young man indicated that another had asked the same question on his afternoon shift just two days before. When Reston pressed for details and the description of the man that had asked about unusual incidents involving truckers, that the youth may have noticed, it became a tattered end. The stoned out youth could only offer a vague description of the man who had come in days before to make the same inquires that Reston did. It was becoming a usual occurrence in John’s routine.

It almost gave John the creeps to think that he may be watched, but worse than that was the signal that he was trailing someone else’s footsteps along his investigation, and they did not appear to belong to the killer. The clerk was not helpful, too much pot or alcohol in his youth had rattled loose whatever was locked up in his head before, an absent minded ghost, just wasting time until his next arrest or death by misadventure. Reston thanked him anyway, bought a paper and left to locate another possible lead. John had been tracking the suspect for eight months but he had learned precious little. John had never questioned his abilities as an agent, but this investigation seemed different, although he couldn’t put his finger on any exact detail why. But he did get a cold chill running down his spine when witnesses mentioned that someone else had stopped by and asked similar questions just days before. That posed the questions, just who was this person and what was his relationship to the killer?

You can’t pick your cases based upon the victims, his prey was not the blonde, blued-eyed little angel gone missing that America seemed to wrap their hearts around. Every victim had to be considered just that, a victim, until it was proven otherwise. A person subjected to murder, was innocent of knowledge of their attacker, until evidence arose the two were conspirators in some commonly linked crime. This was the case with the grubby man who was his victim. The witness to the murder gave a description of what she believed was a robbery, but would later learn was a homicide. The brief description of the suspect was all

Reston had to start off with. But he had started with even less during his career with the FBI, and still found results. Agents in his office doubted him when he chose to follow such an obscure lead. Most witness testimony was often lacking in good detail, in some cases, even a polar opposite from the true events they were swearing they had seen. Those most confident in their interviews usually make the highest mistakes. The case would be assigned to him when it appeared that their suspect had traveled from one state to another, one with a murder that could be tied to their suspect. He was scrutinizing a murderer working interstate. Reston was alone in his belief that any suspect, or in the vernacular of the FBI, the Unsub, or unknown subject was committing murders from state to state. His supervisor had attached him to another agent at one point earlier in his career, a move that didn’t pan out and hindered John from making any progress, he became frustrated and he took his frustration out on his partner. He never wanted to work as a team, if they wanted Mulder and Scully, they could go fuck themselves. His partner eventually resigned himself from making progress in buttering up Reston and after requesting a transfer, he was granted his exit. Everyone breathed easier knowing John was to work alone.

You damned well know I will need dailies to forward…we all have supervisors, mine are just bigger assholes than yours are. This will mean that I will be in almost constant contact with the agent I send out on the road, Right?

This was the only advice his current field supervisor had given him, and he did keep in touch, presenting his expenses and filing weekly progress reports. But he still ducked calls from his office whenever possible. Right now he was traveling down the interstate with a singular spot in the horizon; the perpetrator and his current whereabouts.

***

After a long day of chatting up folks, Colton was tired. His efforts had gained him very little. He continued his performance as the reporter from Ft. Myers and learned from an employee at KitchenWorx that Monica said something about going out on Sunday with a couple of girlfriends from high school. But police would have learned this already and interviewed those girls. He did gather that she probably meant to meet the girls after firming on a time and location for drinks, since this didn’t happen, he surmised Monica had to have been abducted on Saturday despite what the news reports had indicated. Colton, a marketing director before finding his new calling and pulled into the story by a personal tragedy, was purifying the world in his mind.

After making it a back to the Glades, he fell face forward onto the mattress and drifted quickly to sleep. A few hours later he awoke and knew he would be up