Cognizant of the curious eyes that followed their trek toward the house, Santos studied faces, body language. It wasn’t unusual for a perpetrator to insert him or herself into the middle of a case in hopes of staying ahead of the investigation.
Men in coveralls and dusty boots stood in clusters shaking their heads. Woman in T-shirts and shorts wore sunglasses to hide their tears. No one appeared overtly suspicious, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here, watching.
Santos turned her attention to the farmhouse. It was old, in need of a coat of paint. Already the day’s heat pressed down on the purple and white flowers drooping limply in their hanging baskets on the front porch. An eerie lowing sound came from the direction of the barn.
Though the house gave no outward indication that something terrible had occurred here, Santos could feel a sense of dread rising from the earth, shimmering with heat.
Someone was handing out pictures of the missing teens. Agent Santos took a flyer and examined it. The picture of Ethan Doyle was a good one. He smiled brightly and his blue eyes snapped with good-natured mischief.
Santos turned her attention to the picture of Becky Allen. Pretty girl. While most girls this age appeared awkward and hadn’t quite settled into their features, Becky conveyed an air of maturity, confidence.
“Hello,” the woman handing out the fliers said. “Thank you for coming. If you could please sign in here, we’ll…”
“We’re with the state police,” Santos said.
“Oh,” the woman faltered. “I was telling the deputy here that the other night I saw a strange truck parked on the gravel road, right over there.” She turned and pointed just beyond the Doyles’ cornfield.
“What’s your name?” Agent Santos asked.
“Abby Morris. I live out that way,” she turned and pointed toward the north.
“I’m Deputy Robbins. I wrote down her account,” Levi said, patting a bulge in his shirt pocket where it held a small notebook.
“Make sure we get a copy of it,” Santos said. “I’m looking for Sheriff Butler,” Santos said.
Levi nodded and said, “It’s a bit of a walk.”
“Good thing I have my walking shoes on,” Santos said. Levi gave a hesitant smile, not sure if he had offended the agent. When she didn’t smile back, he let the grin fall away. “He’s this way,” Levi said and started walking toward the back of the house. “A deputy found it about thirty feet into the cornfield.”
“Anyone touch it?” Santos asked.
“They said they didn’t. Someone ran to get me and I hightailed it into the field and cleared everyone out of the area.”
“Good,” Santos said. The red barn loomed over the property. You could fit three of her house easily inside the sagging building. Santos was a city girl, grew up in Kansas City, and now lived in the heart of downtown Des Moines but knew that zip code was no exemption from violence and death. There was just less concrete and more soil.
As they approached the cornfield, Santos’s pulse quickened. She had been in meth houses and down dark alleys, but as they stepped into the corn, the tall stalks towered over her. At the top of each, a spiky tassel poked the sky. In the space of a few steps, the field had swallowed her whole. Santos felt a wave of apprehension.
As they pushed through the corn, Santos could imagine the terror that Josie Doyle must have felt as she hid from her attacker. No matter which direction you looked—left or right—there was another identical stalk in front of you.
Santos lifted her neck and squinted upward. The sky was as vast and endless as the field seemed to be. Insects buzzed past her ears, the sweet smell of corn filled her nose.
Soon the murmur of the breeze through the stalks was replaced with a dry cough. A few steps farther and Sheriff Butler’s khaki uniform came into view.
“Sheriff,” Agent Santos said by way of greeting. Butler turned toward her and then stepped aside to reveal what had been discovered by the volunteers.
A camo-colored shotgun, muzzle up, leaned against a thick stalk. “Looks like someone just set it there,” the deputy observed.
Agent Santos lowered herself into a crouch and examined the butt of the gun that rested atop the dry dirt. “Maybe. Any footprints?”
“Not a one. The ground is too hard-packed,” Sheriff Butler said. “But there’s a lot of trampled stalks. Squares up with what Josie said about being chased through the field.”
Agent Santos lifted a pinch of soil from the ground and rubbed it between her fingers. “Why would he leave the weapon behind.”