A Necessary Evil Page 9

  Mollie watched through her tears as he turned and climbed the stairs. There was no hope left for her. She was going to die. And all because of something her grandfather had done in a moment of blind rage forty years ago. Though she could understand his compulsion for revenge, Mollie had lost all compassion for him. She knew if she ever did make it out of The Vault, she would never be able to forget what she’d learned about her grandfather today. And she would never, ever be able to forgive him.

  Chapter 14

  Frankie

  He’d been driving around the outskirts of Fayette County for nearly an hour, searching for Mollie’s red car, when he received a call from Bruno back at Trifecta advising him someone had delivered a package with his name on it. Knowing it was likely from Mollie’s kidnapper, he’d turned around and was headed back to the restaurant.

  Though he was no longer a God-fearing man, Frankie prayed to whomever was listening that the package didn’t contain one of Mollie’s ears, or a finger, or any other body part, for that matter. He’d had to send similar messages in the past, though not often, as he’d tried to keep his hands from getting bloody ever since the day he’d killed Julian McAllister. Those duties were usually reserved for certain employees, like Bruno.

  Knowing Julian’s son was the one who had taken Mollie made it impossible for Frankie not to think about what he’d done back in 1979, though he’d spent forty years trying to forget. He didn’t regret killing Addie’s murderer, but he hadn’t simply put a bullet between his eyes.

  Frankie had spent the months after Addie’s murder shaking down every lowlife scum in the central Kentucky area until he’d finally gotten his hands on a rat who was all too eager to tell him a man named Julian McAllister had employed him in the past, and he’d once confided in this rat about how he loved to collect pretty young girls.

  It had only taken a couple more weeks for Frankie to track Julian down to a gym he’d owned at the time in the heart of downtown Lexington. He’d watched the creep for weeks, waiting for the perfect opportunity to nab him without being noticed. Though Frankie had only just turned nineteen, he’d been working out religiously and would, at the very least, be an equal match for the older man. Especially with the large handgun he’d bought from a friend.

  The opportunity finally presented itself one night in late March, nearly a year after Addie’s death. Frankie was parked behind the gym, waiting for his moment, when Julian had opened the back door, two large bags of trash in his hands. Frankie’s pulse had quickened, and adrenaline coursed through his veins when he realized the man was finally alone and there was no one around to witness what he was about to do.

  Frankie slipped slowly from his car and surreptitiously snuck up behind Julian, who was whistling as he threw the bags of garbage up and over a fence into the bins. With the gun shoved against the back of his head, Frankie was able to overpower the older man and drag him back to his waiting car. He’d forced Julian into the passenger seat, and within seconds he was on the road, headed to the abandoned warehouse he’d already staked out months prior.

  At first, Julian had been obstinate and way too proud to admit he was scared shitless, but then Frankie had tied Julian to a chair—legs, chest, and arms—with heavy rope and covered his mouth with industrial strength duct tape. Julian’s eyes went wide as saucers and sweat poured out of every pore as he thrashed about, trying to free himself from the restraints. Frankie made it clear to Julian exactly why he was there and informed him he would never see his baby boy again. Then, to Julian’s astonishment, this big, scary man, who had killed dozens of young girls, had begun to snivel and cry like a little boy. It had no effect on Frankie, though. The rage that overcame him was too hot to be extinguished by the man’s free-flowing tears.

  Frankie had spent the next two days torturing Julian, more mentally than physically, though he had taken a bat to him more than once and beaten him bloody with his bare fists several times. In the end, when Frankie’s fury was finally beginning to dissipate, and he grew weary of looking at Addie’s killer, he’d told him to make peace with his God, held the gun to his forehead, and pulled the trigger without so much as blinking. He’d disposed of his body by dropping it into an abandoned well.

  Though the police officially opened an investigation into Julian’s disappearance, when they received an anonymous tip telling them who Julian really was, the investigation seemed to peter out after a couple of weeks. No one appeared to even notice Julian McAllister was gone. No one besides his wife Martha, who was left to raise their infant son all alone. But Frankie couldn’t pretend he felt any remorse for leaving the child fatherless. Any time he thought about it that way, he reminded himself of all the innocent young women he’d tortured and killed, including Addie.

  It wasn’t long after taking care of Julian that Frankie had begun his life of crime. He’d seen how inept the police had been with his own two eyes, and he’d vowed to never rely on law enforcement to handle any problems he might have ever again.

  The rift between Kurt and Frankie had grown even wider after Frankie made this decision, and Kurt announced he would be attending the police academy after returning from his four years of Army service. The boys, who were once blood brothers, were now living on opposite sides of the law. Forty years later, nothing had changed.

  When Frankie’s black Cadillac pulled up in his reserved parking spot behind Trifecta, he barely waited for the engine to turn off before leaping from his car and scrambling through the back door to look for Bruno. His burly bodyguard met him as soon as he entered the back room.

  “Hey, boss.” He was holding a manila envelope in his right hand. “Got this package for you today.”

  “Bruno, this is very important. Did you happen to see who delivered this?” Frankie snatched the envelope from Bruno’s hand.

  “Yeah, I saw him,” Bruno said.

  Sometimes Frankie wondered why he had hired this airhead, but he tried to remain patient. “Great, Bruno. Now, can you describe him for me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. He was young. Maybe fifteen or so. White kid with brown hair.”

  Obviously, Julian’s son hadn’t delivered this himself. Smart move. Frankie had employed this tactic many times. Give a street kid five bucks, and he’d do just about anything, without question. Then no one could identify who had delivered the message. The kidnapper was no idiot, this much was becoming clear.

  Frankie knew he was stalling, afraid to open the envelope for fear of what may be inside. There was no blood on the outside of the envelope—a promising sign. But that didn’t necessarily mean much. He ripped it apart across the top. Part of him wondered as he opened it if he should have called Kurt and let him process the envelope for fingerprints, but he quickly brushed away this notion. He reminded himself he was handling this on his own. With the package now open, Frankie peered inside. All he could see was a second envelope, this one white and about the size of a standard business letter.

  This time, Frankie slid his finger along the flap of the envelope and opened it gingerly. He looked inside, and to his horror, saw a clump of what had to be Mollie’s blonde hair, tied together at the top with a red ribbon. Frankie nearly dropped the hair, but caught it before it slipped to the ground. He looked inside the envelope again and saw a note which he hadn’t noticed at first. Unfolding the thick, white paper, he read the words that were written in large, bold, black letters.

  CONFESS YOUR SINS PUBLICLY OR MOLLIE DIES, JUST LIKE THE OTHERS.

  He let the letter flutter to the ground and stood staring at the lock of his granddaughter’s hair, which was gripped tightly in his right hand. The significance of her hair was not lost on Frankie. He clearly recalled the fact that Julian McAllister had kept locks of his victims’ hair in a wooden box. His son was now telling Frankie that if he didn’t “confess his sins publicly,” his beloved grandchild would suffer the same fate as Julian’s victims. The thought made his stomach turn over on itself. The room was spinning around him, and he had to steady
himself by grabbing the back of a chair.

  The only thing the message could possibly mean was the kidnapper wanted Frankie to literally confess his sins, either to the police or the public, or both. How else could he “confess publicly?” He had no way of reaching Julian’s son, and he assumed if he wanted to hear from Frankie directly, he’d have called again. Then he remembered the call he’d gotten earlier from him and quickly dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He found the incoming number and redialed it, but instead of ringing, a loud tone sounded, then came a prerecorded voice telling Frankie the number was no longer in service.

  Panic washed over him, and for the first time in his life, he felt control slipping from his grasp. Some crazed lunatic was holding Mollie hostage to get him to admit he’d killed the man’s father. But what guarantee did he have that even if he turned himself in to the police for Julian McAllister’s murder, his son would set her free? None whatsoever.

  There was no way he was going to cave to this lunatic’s demands. He needed to find him immediately. He dialed Lynx’s number, and she picked up on the second ring.

  “I need you to find someone for me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need to know the name of Julian McAllister’s son. Julian disappeared back in 1979. His son was about one year old at the time, meaning he was born around 1978, here in Kentucky, I’m sure. I need not only his name, but his last known address. Find out anything you can about the man and get back to me. Yesterday.”

  “Got it, boss. I’m on it.”

  Lynx hung up without saying goodbye. If anyone could find Julian’s son, it was her.

  Frankie paced the back room of the restaurant, trying to formulate a plan for when he found this sick little bastard. Of course, he would have to disappear, just like his father. Not only must he be punished for taking Mollie, but he was the only other person alive, besides Kurt Jamison, who knew what Frankie had done forty years ago. He knew Kurt would never say anything. If he was going to hang Frankie, he would’ve already done so. Not to mention that he’d have to admit he had known the truth all along. That fact alone would end his career before he had a chance to retire. But Julian’s son obviously had no scruples, and if he let him live after he found Mollie and brought her home safely, he’d probably scream the truth from the mountaintops. Maybe no one would believe him, though Frankie wasn’t about to take any chances. The answer was clear. The son would pay the same way the father had.

  The phone rang, and Frankie answered it immediately. “What’ve you got?”

  “Looks like Julian McAllister had a son, born January 4, 1978, named Collin Ray McAllister.”

  “Good. Great. Where does he live?” Frankie knew it was highly unlikely Collin had Mollie held where he lived, but it would be a start in tracking him down.

  “That’s the weird part, boss. The last time Collin McAllister registered any sort of address was over two years ago. Back then, he lived in the Chinoe Creek Apartments, number 213. But after that, he just sort of…disappeared.”

  “Keep looking. Check out any property ever registered to anyone in the McAllister family. He’s somewhere close. Concentrate on any property out in the county. He had Mollie out on Delong Road at some point, so check out that way.”

  “Will do.”

  Frankie slid his phone back into his pocket and slowly slumped down into the chair. It suddenly struck him that Kurt had probably thought to track down Julian’s son too. He cursed himself for sharing what he’d learned with the detective. Hopefully, though, Frankie was ahead of him by a nose, and Kurt hadn’t thought to track down any family property yet. Kurt was one hell of a detective, but he didn’t have the resources Frankie had. Plus, he had to work within the confines of the legal system.

  Frankie hoped he would find Collin McAllister before Kurt and his partner did, because he knew this time his old friend wouldn’t stand and let him “handle” the son the way he had the father. The honorable detective would insist on bringing Collin in and letting the court system deal with him. But there was no way Frankie was going to let that happen. He couldn’t stand idly by while he blabbed the truth about Julian’s “disappearance” to anyone who would listen. Collin had to be dealt with, swiftly and permanently.

  All Frankie could do now was sit and wait.

  Chapter 15

  Kurt

  Back at the precinct, Kurt was leaning close to his computer screen.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going blind too,” Lonnie quipped from his desk across the open room.

  Kurt didn’t take the bait this time. He didn’t want to admit to his partner that he was, in fact, in need of bifocals. But Kurt had staunchly refused his optometrist’s recommendation, telling him he’d rather go blind than wear glasses. Plus, he was too busy concentrating on what was on his screen to exchange insults with Lonnie.

  As soon as he’d arrived back at the precinct and entered Mollie’s diary into evidence, Kurt had shot over to his desk and immediately entered Julian McAllister’s name in the database. He would look at the diary later. Right now, he needed to identify her kidnapper.

  In a matter of seconds, he’d found the investigation file regarding his so-called disappearance. It made Kurt’s insides twist into knots every time he thought about what Frankie had done. Though he never learned the details, he knew Julian McAllister had not simply vanished into thin air. He also knew his former best friend probably tortured the man before finishing him off and likely dumped his body in the river or somewhere no one would ever find him.

  According to the file, which Kurt hadn’t read since he first joined the force, Julian Allan McAllister, age thirty-seven, had been reported missing by his wife Martha on March 27, 1979 when she woke up that morning to discover her husband hadn’t come home the night before. The detectives on the case had interviewed the employees at his gym, but they had no idea where their boss had gone. All they knew was he’d gone to take the trash out the previous night, but never returned. They’d assumed he’d gone home.

  Canvasing of the neighborhood had turned up nothing, other than a few comments from people in the area that Julian was “a bit odd” and “kind of creepy.” One business colleague even mentioned his propensity for attractive girls half his age. The wife said he’d never stayed out all night in the five years they’d been together, and his vehicle had been found parked right in front of the gym where he’d left it. Though the detectives suspected foul play, there wasn’t enough information to figure out who took him and where and why.

  Until the day an unmarked envelope was delivered without postage to the police headquarters, which laid out the truth about Julian McAllister. It claimed he was a sick, sociopathic pedophile, responsible for the kidnapping, rape, and murder of several young girls. The detectives on the missing person case apparently did some digging and were able to confirm the letter’s allegations. Soon thereafter, the case regarding Julian McAllister had been abandoned, though never officially closed.

  Kurt already knew all this, so he continued his research. He eventually found tiny a newspaper article announcing the birth of one Collin Ray McAllister, born to Julian and Martha McAllister at Central Baptist Hospital on January 4, 1978. The article went on to say Martha and Julian had barely made it to the hospital in time, thanks to the infamous ’78 blizzard.

  Kurt switched screens and entered “Collin Ray McAllister, Lexington, Kentucky,” into the Google search bar and waited for the department’s ancient dial-up internet to bring up a new page. When it finally came up, there were over two thousand results, but only the first five or six appeared to be the man he was looking for. The first result was on an alumni page for Lexington Catholic High School. Collin had apparently graduated in 1996, but Kurt could find no mention of the teenager on any sports rosters. His graduation photograph showed the face of a rather goofy looking kid with light-colored hair, glasses, and a reticent look on his face. Collin was obviously not a popular kid, and Kurt remembered boys like him when he was
in school—shy, reserved loners. It was always the weird ones who turned out to be creeps, and Collin had been no exception.

  Next, Kurt searched the DMV records for any vehicles registered in Collin’s name. To his surprise, none had been listed in over two years. The last one, a Mercury Cougar, had been registered to an apartment on Chinoe Road. Nothing at all since then. No census records, no tax records. There was literally nothing that showed a current address for Collin Ray McAllister. He had no criminal record, had never been so much as questioned by police, and had never called 911. Kurt checked the death records for the past three years, but nothing was registered there, either.

  “Finding anything over there, partner?” Lonnie’s voice broke Kurt’s concentration.

  “Nothing at all,” Kurt answered. “It’s like he’s a damn ghost. Just disappeared off the map about two years ago.”

  “We’ll find him,” Lonnie said with no trace of sarcasm at all, which was a nice change of pace. “Just gotta keep digging.”

  Kurt turned back to the computer. He drummed his fingers on his desk as he wracked his brain for ways to track down a psychopath with a thirst for revenge who had gone underground. How could someone kidnap any young girl, let alone seven, hold them for God only knew how long, and dispose of their bodies so there was not even a trace of their existence left? He had to have someplace quiet and secluded where he could play out his fantasies without nosy neighbors or police growing suspicious of his strange behavior. He’d had Mollie at the old grocery store on Delong, at least temporarily, and Kurt knew beyond the rundown store was not much more than miles and miles of undeveloped land and horse farms.