“You leave my mom alone. She’s sick,” Jackson said glancing toward the house. “You don’t need to bother her with all this.”
“But I’m afraid I do,” Butler said, his voice filled with regret. “We’ve got two dead and two missing teens. I have to talk to everyone who saw any of the Doyles or Becky Allen yesterday.” Butler tried to give Jackson a friendly smile. “How about it? Let’s take a walk around and talk.”
Butler saw the indecision on Jackson’s face that he’d seen on hundreds of people over the years—should he get back in the truck and take off or stop and wait to see what the sheriff wanted?
Jackson didn’t quite do either. He left the truck where it was and took off on foot. Butler watched as the man sprinted behind the house, his boots kicking up thick gray dust in his wake. That was when, in a split second, Jackson Henley went from witness to person of interest.
A buzz of excitement coursed through the sheriff. People ran when they were guilty or scared. Butler maneuvered his vehicle around Henley’s truck and parked. He got on his car radio and summoned dispatch. Through the crackling static, Butler told them to have backup on standby and to pull any records they had on Jackson Henley.
Butler knew that he didn’t have the legal power to do a search just yet, so he’d have to get permission another way.
Butler exited his car on heightened alert. There were too many unknowns—why Henley had bolted, where he was hiding, what firearms and weapons he had access to.
Hand resting on his sidearm, Butler made his way up the decaying front steps and knocked. June Henley answered the door, her pink hat askew on her head. Butler was struck at how frail the woman looked—as if she could collapse at any moment.
June looked wearily up at Butler. “I imagine you’re here to talk about those two girls,” she said. “Come on in.”
Three hundred miles away, State Trooper Phillip Loeb was still on the hunt for the silver truck. He had taken the exit to McCool Junction, a tiny village about five miles off I-80. Other troopers had also joined the search and were keeping an eye out in case the truck returned to the interstate. But Loeb had a feeling that the driver pulled into McCool to hide. He crept slowly down the quiet streets in search of the truck. Every other car was a pickup, making his search more difficult. He passed the school, a bank, and a drive-in restaurant.
Loeb took Road 4 out of McCool Junction, came to the speedway and pulled into the parking lot. And there it was. The silver truck and its two inhabitants, just sitting there. Loeb called in his position, pulled out his sidearm, and cautiously exited his car, taking cover behind the cruiser.
There were no plates on the truck, sending up another red flag. This was it. He could feel it. “Hands on the steering wheel,” Loeb shouted. “Hands on the dashboard!” He half expected for the driver to take off, but the truck stayed put.
Within minutes, two more state troopers arrived, as did three deputies from the York County Sheriff’s Department. Using their vehicles as a blockade, they boxed the truck in. There was no escape. The law enforcement officers exited their cars, guns drawn.
“Driver,” Loeb shouted. “Open your door.” The driver’s side door swung open. “Show me your hands, show me your hands!” A pair of trembling hands appeared. “Driver, step slowly from the vehicle,” Loeb ordered. One tennis shoe and then another touched the concrete, and a tall figure unfolded himself from the truck.
It was a young man, his eyes wild with terror.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”
“Get on the ground,” another trooper shouted, and the boy lowered himself to the concrete, hands stretched out. Then the officers were upon him, guns pointed at his head, pulling his wrists behind his back.
Loeb turned his attention to the truck’s passenger. “Passenger, open the door, hands up!” A petite figure lowered herself from the truck, hands above her head.
“Are you injured?” Loeb asked. “Did he hurt you?” The sobbing girl shook her head.
“Becky Allen?” he asked. “Are you Becky Allen?”
She looked at the trooper in confusion. “No,” she shook her head. “My name is Christina.”
Sheriff Butler took off his hat as he stepped into June Henley’s living room. The air was cool and smelled of eucalyptus, the hot sun kept out by heavy drapes. The room was sparsely furnished, tidy, and clean. An end table was covered in pill bottles, neatly lined up next to a glass of water. A television tuned to a soap opera sat in a corner. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m here about the two girls.”