The party had started at nine thirty the previous evening, and by eleven o’clock every kid in the county was there, draining the Madigan wine cellar dry. At eleven fifteen neighbors had called in a complaint about the noise, and Officer Boxner had swung by and spoken to Rebecca who agreed to “turn down the volume.”
At around eleven thirty, Rebecca had some kind of falling out with her bestie, Patricia Douglas, but everyone agreed the squabble meant nothing and had been almost immediately patched up. And in fact, it was Patricia who had first noticed, around one a.m., that Rebecca was missing.
The remaining and none-too-sober partygoers had conducted an immediate and impromptu search for Rebecca which had been abandoned when they decided she had probably left for her boyfriend’s house.
In the morning Alice Cornwell, the Madigans’ housekeeper, phoned Rebecca’s boyfriend who told her he hadn’t seen Rebecca since leaving the party at around ten thirty the previous evening. Whereupon Ms. Cornwell had phoned the Kingsfield Police Department.
Kennedy said, “Rebecca intended to party with a few close friends, but word got out and her soiree was crashed by…rough estimate?” There was a perpetually cynical note in his voice that enabled him to use terms like “soiree” without sounding like he was kidding.
Boxner had rejoined them by then. He answered, “Sixty to seventy juveniles. Most but not all of them were from around here.”
“Not enough supervision. That’s the problem with these kids,” Gervase said. “If someone is to blame, it’s the parents.”
Kennedy said, “If someone’s to blame, it’s the sociopath who took a teenage girl from her backyard.” Still unmoved, still unemotional, he continued, “The boyfriend left at ten thirty. Early in the evening. That sounds like there may have been trouble between them.”
Gervase said, “We interviewed Tony McEnroe first thing this morning. He said he never saw Rebecca after he left the party. He denied there being any problems in their relationship.”
“He would,” Kennedy said. “Officer Boxner said you’ve already interviewed the housekeeper, the neighbors, and the kids who were originally invited to the party?”
“Standard procedure,” Gervase said. There was a hint of hope in his tone as he added, “I guess you’ll want to read over their statements?”
“We’ll look them over,” Kennedy agreed. “Assuming we don’t locate Rebecca within the next few hours.”
That was going to be one hell of a lot of he said and she said to sort through. Not that Jason had a problem with paperwork. Tracking stolen artwork was largely done through surfing the web or meticulously following paper trails. Jason was very good at hunting. The difference was no one’s life was ever hanging in the balance when he hunted. The stakes here were almost unbearably high.
Jason’s thoughts broke off as Kennedy turned to him. “Thoughts, Agent West?” His tone was dry as he waited for disagreement or debate.
“I, er, concur.”
Kennedy’s brows rose as though this was an unexpected concession from an unlikely source. He turned back to Chief Gervase. “I take it you’re still gathering statements from the party crashers?”
Jason let out a long, quiet breath. He had never had to work with anyone who detested him as plainly as Kennedy did. Not that he was a member of Kennedy’s fan club either, but you had to respect the guy. In fact, when Kennedy had nailed Martin Pink to the wall, Jason, along with pretty much everyone else, had considered him a hero.
That was a long time ago.
Gervase was answering Kennedy. “It’s going to take a while to track everyone down, especially when some of the guests don’t want their parents knowing where they were.”
Jason said, “Chief, can I ask why you’re so sure Rebecca is the victim of a copycat?”
Gervase’s smile was world-weary. “You’re not familiar with the Kingsfield Killings, are you, son?”
Jason wasn’t sure how to answer, and in any case, Gervase wasn’t waiting for a response. “Over the course of six years, a local man by the name of Martin Pink abducted and murdered seven young blonde and blue-eyed women from swimming areas around Worcester County. The press dubbed him the Huntsman.”
“I remember the case. I—”
“Then you know ten years ago your partner was responsible for catching Pink and putting him behind bars. Except now we’ve got another blonde and blue-eyed teenage girl missing from a pool party. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s one hell of a coincidence.”
Kennedy said, “It could be a coincidence. It’s our job to make sure one way or the other.”
It could be a coincidence, and it could be a copycat. Copycat behaviors were more and more common thanks to the way violent crime was sensationalized in the “news” and the increased reach social media had given those various outlets of information. Jason had heard of more than one drug dealer legally changing his name to Walter White in honor of Breaking Bad, and the number of assaults and murders inspired by The Dark Knight’s Joker was frankly depressing. Teens and young adults were especially prone to copycat behavior. It was the nature of the beast. Even so, in the broader scheme of things, copycat crimes were relatively rare.
There remained a third possibility, of course. The possibility that Kennedy had put the wrong man behind bars.
The possibility that the Huntsman was still out there.
Chapter Three
The sun rose higher in the blue sky. The day grew hotter, dryer. The swarm of wasps at last dissipated, and the search for Rebecca recommenced in this key sector. Canine teams raced into the woods ahead of the slow-moving lines of volunteers and seemed to be swallowed whole into vast green silence.