The man’s response is quick and defensive. “It’s a family antique. I need you to keep it safe for a couple of days.”
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “It’s noisy and irritating.” She waves off his protest and opens the door to a storage area under the stairs. There are several large canisters of kerosene, at least fifteen gallons each, clearly marked with warning labels. Sounding pleased, she says, “This is what you’ll need for our main event.”
“Oh, boy,” I said as the vision faded, and a sudden realization hit me.
I looked at Broyles. “I know who’s been helping her.” I walked over to the antique clock on the floor behind a pillar. I picked it up and saw a plate inside the face.
“What are you looking at?” Broyles asked.
I showed him the nameplate.
“Daniel Lems.” He looked confused.
“That’s the man who owns the antique furniture shop next to my boutique.”
He furrowed his brow. “And you think he’s Carol’s partner?”
“Not him,” I replied. “It’s his son. It’s Waylon Lems.”
ChapterEighteen
Ezra hadn’t answered his phone when I called, so Broyles used the police radio to get a hold of Reese.
Reese’s voice came over the air. “Cell phone reception is crap here,” she complained. “I hope you all found something because we’re coming up empty here. Over.”
“Request a secure channel,” I told Broyles. I wanted to ask about Ari and Mason, and to see if Reese had seen Gilly, and I didn’t want to broadcast it out to all the cops in the area.”
“Move to two. Over,” Broyles said. He reached down and turned the dial on his radio until the LED number read 2. “Done.”
“Thanks.” I held out my hand, and he handed me the radio.
“Suspect first,” he advised.
“Right.” I depressed the button on the side of the handheld. “Suspect is Waylon Lems, white male, early forties, five-eight, around one hundred and thirty pounds. His hair is light brown, shoulder-length. He is possibly transporting several fifteen-gallon barrels of kerosene for whatever he has planned. Over.” I took my hand off the button.
“One hundred and fifty? Did I hear that correctly? Over.” Her voice hardened. She sounded every bit a cop.
“Yes. Motive, other than money, unknown. Over.” Some psychopaths got their kicks on torturing people. Maybe that was all the motive Waylon needed. “Have you seen Gilly? The kids? Over.”
“Gilly, the Doc, and Ezra took a jon boat with a trolling motor out on the lake to track them down. It’s going to be tough. The kids are somewhere among the hundreds of entries this year. There’s one raft that’s ten feet high and made out of nothing but Styrofoam coolers. These people are nuts. Over.”
“Heard. Over.” I was relieved she’d found Gilly and let her know something was up, but now I was worried for the three of them out searching for the kids.
I handed the radio back to Broyles. “We’re coming in now,” he said. “Over. Where do you want us to meet you?”
“The marina,” Reese answered. “Over.”
* * *
We pulledinto Portman’s on the Lake marina parking lot to a scene of chaos. The homemade raft race had drawn a massive crowd of spectators—drunk tourists, sunburned families, and locals alike—all eagerly watching the ludicrous floats bobbing on the water. Broyles and I scanned the throng, looking for Reese among the sea of faces.
Broyles keyed his radio, trying to establish contact. “Reese, this is Broyles. We’re at the marina. Over.”
Static crackled before Reese’s voice responded, sounding frustrated. “Copy that. En route to dock six. Meet me there. Over.”
“Copy that. Over.” Broyles tucked the radio away. “Let’s move,” he said, urgency coloring his voice as we hurried through the lively crowd toward the marina. It was after seven now, but it was still hot as we navigated through the maze of excited spectators. It almost made me long for winter. Almost.
As we reached the marina’s edge to wait for Reese, I scanned the horizon, hoping to catch sight of Ezra and the others. The sound of raucous cheers and the splashing of water filled the air, but amidst the festivities, our mission to find Waylon weighed heavily on my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to his participation than for money or the fun of it. Waylon had always been so nice—said every neighbor of a serial killer.Waylon’s dad, however, was a piece of work. He was verbally, and I think, at times, physically abusive to his son. Even now. I always thought Waylon’s sculptures were an outlet—an escape—from his dad. If someone had told me Mr. Lems had people tied up in the basement, I wouldn’t have blinked. Which is why I wanted to understand.
