Racked

By Sue Coletta

It starts with an innocent stuffed animal. It ends in mind-numbing terror.

Five missing boys and an adult corpse found in the town’s water shed was only the beginning for Sage and Niko Quintano. After a hooded-stranger gives their son, Noah, a stuffed animal—the exact Christmas moose given to all the missing boys days before their abductions—their lives spiral downward into uncertainty.

Could Noah be the next boy to go missing?

As they piece together each cryptic clue, the future looks more and more grim. But what they soon discover blows everyone’s mind, the truth teetering on the unfathomable.

What does it all mean, and where do they go from here?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Aug 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463275467

Sue Coletta

Sue Coletta is an active member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and the bestselling, award-winning crime writer of psychological thrillers and mysteries (Tirgearr Publishing). For true crime fans, PRETTY EVIL NEW ENGLAND will hit bookstores by Nov. 1, 2020 (Globe Pequot - trade division of Rowman & Littlefield). Feedspot and Expertido.org awarded her Murder Blog as one of the Top 100 Crime Blogs on the Net (Murder Blog sits at #5). Sue's also the communications manager for Forensic Science and the Serial Killer Project and a proud member of the Kill Zone, where she blogs every other Monday.

Book preview

Prologue

December 19, 2008

Friday

7:30 p.m.

In the vast openness of the snowmobile trails, solar-powered Christmas lights danced across pine needles on the branches I separated while the lanky silhouette of the Serial Predator tossed shovelfuls of dirty snow on a mound. Was he digging a fresh grave? My calf muscles jumping-jacked beneath my skin, begging me to run. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

A row of thin birch trees bowed over the makeshift grave, thin branches curled like the skeletal fingers of a demon protecting its prey. The overcast sky blurred the hazy moon into non-compliance, its glow hastened by gathering storm clouds.

Who did he plan to bury here? My gloved hand clawed at my throat.

Sweet Jesus, please tell me Noah’s still with Mrs. Falanga. All the saliva in my mouth dried to dust, my insides squirming, screaming for release. What if Childs left his post long enough for the Serial Predator to sneak past him? What if he murdered everyone in the house? What if he abducted my child after Mrs. Falanga tucked him in bed? She might not realize he was missing till dawn.

Beyond the tree, a flashlight balanced on its end, a smoldering yellow glow pointed toward the heavens. Cigarette smoke billowed through the haze. Hot ash tumbled into the darkness when he flicked the filter into the arctic December air.

I backed away from the tree.

Crunch.

My right heel froze on the pinecone.

The Serial Predator slung his portable spade over one shoulder and stalked toward me. Hello?

Male voice. Almost familiar. Where had I heard it before? Holding my breath, cramps squeezed my calf muscle as I crouched behind the conifer, flames tunneling down my sciatic nerve to my partially-raised foot, bent at such an angle mind-numbing pain riddled the whole right side of my leg.

The Serial Predator hustled back to the shallow grave, and I lowered my wet boot to the snow. The moment he turned his back, I nosedived toward the base of the tree trunk, slithering beneath the branches like a frightened garter snake. The snow piled around the bottom helped shield the top half of my body. I pulled my legs out of view. A glacial breeze swept across my wet hair, and I could not stop shivering, the icy snow soaking through my jeans and wool coat.

With one smooth motion, he swiped his flashlight off the snow and aimed the beam toward the pine tree. Hello?

After the blinding light struck my eyes, I would never be able to describe his face or any distinguishable features, the black hoodie masking his identity. He could be anyone. Or no one.

With both gloves covering my nose and mouth, I held back icy breath that threatened to reveal my hiding spot.

Is someone there?

A cylindrical sphere lasered through the pine needles, and I ducked, my bare cheek trembling against a clustered mass of icicles. Snow boots clomped around the tree, then stopped—inches from my face.

Dear God, don’t let him find me.

Chapter One

Twenty-Six Hours Earlier

Thursday, December 18, 2008

5:30 a.m.

Another child missing. Another mother devastated. Another father suffering in silence. At the shelter, I passed out the warm blankets I had stockpiled for weeks. Christmas carols played through speakers bolted to the ceiling in each corner of the open room. Cots lined from wall to wall. As I returned to the table to grab a new pile, a young woman about forty tapped me on the shoulder.

When I turned, tears flowed down her sunken cheeks. Can you help me?

I can try. Did you need a blanket?

Already got one. Thanks. She paused in a way that signaled she was gearing up to ask me something. I love your books, Sage. I mean, Missus Quintano. Sorry, I feel like I’ve known you for years.

A blush swept across my cheekbones. Thank you. That’s so nice of you to say. Do you want me to sign a paperback for you? I’m sure I must have one or two laying around the back of my SUV.

No. I mean, thanks. That would be wonderful, but that’s not why I’m here. Her bottom lip jutted and quivered. My son’s missing, and the police haven’t lifted a finger to find him.

The comment rocked me back on my heels. Wow. Jeez. I am so sorry for what you’re going through.

Brows rising, her eyes filled with hope. Can you help me?

Uh… I chewed my lower lip, not knowing her intent. My husband’s still home recuperating. He doesn’t start back till tomorrow. But I can ask him to look into the case if you’d like.

No.

No? Then I guess I don’t understand what you’re asking.

She threw her arms around my neck, hugging me in desperation. In my ear, she whispered, Find him. Please help me. I can’t go another day without answers.

Gee, I… uh… I pulled her away. How? You do realize I do a ton of research for my books, but that’s all it is—research. I don’t personally investigate crime.

"Please— she waved praying hands— I need someone who’s stood in my shoes. The cops don’t care about people like us."

People like us? Did she mean mothers?

Didn’t matter. For far too long, I’d been trapped in the past. When God spared my husband, I promised to look forward instead of back. But the plea in this woman’s eyes brought back memories of moments I might never escape. No amount of time could heal a mother’s ache for her lost child; no amount of prayer could raise my nameless son from his grave.

Perhaps this was my last chance for salvation. Tell me about your boy.

The tears came full force, her whole body convulsing. His name is Timmy. He just turned six last month. She dug through her backpack and then passed me a photograph of a young boy on a swing, his legs kicked up, blond hair swept up behind him. His innocent smile portrayed pure joy. I took this at the park weeks after we left his father. See how happy he is? We were just getting our lives back on track. It’s one of the few pictures of Timmy that survived the fire.

Her story slashed open my wounded heart. A few months ago, a low-income apartment building burned to the rafters after the landlord cut corners with electrical work. No casualties, but families lost their homes. Those with nowhere to go landed in shelters. The senseless tragedy compelled me to volunteer. It’s the least I could do for the many blessings I’d received over the years. Besides, I was working on a new book in which the homeless played a pivotal role, so volunteering was also a perfect way to research the community.

Will you help me? she begged. "Please, Missus Quintano. I have nowhere else to turn."

How could I deny this woman? She’d lost everything. And now, she might never see her son again or discover what happened to him.

Staring at the photograph, an invisible fist squeezed my heart. I can try. What do you remember about the day Timmy went missing? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.

Cheryl Racine. She dropped her face in cupped hands, hiding her devastation or survivor’s guilt. Probably a little of both. When I finally worked up enough courage to leave my husband, I couldn’t afford first and last month’s rent anyplace else—and I certainly wasn’t going back to that bastard—so Timmy and I moved to Lake Street Heights because they didn’t require a security deposit. But after we moved in, my husband still wouldn’t leave us alone. I called the cops numerous times, even went so far as getting a restraining order.

She rolled her lips. Some good that did. The next thing I know, the whole apartment building goes up in flames. We lost everything that night. So, Timmy and I moved here to the shelter as a stepping stone.

Her story toyed with my emotions, my chest constricting more and more with each new tragic detail. All I managed was, Wow. You’ve had more than your share of heartbreak. Life can be so unfair at times.

As though she hadn’t heard a word, her blank expression never changed. Usually my son slept with me, but one of the other parents put it in his head that he was too old to sleep with his mom. Recounting the events of that tragic night, she stared right through me. For hours, I watched my son as he slept in the next cot over—shelters aren’t always the safest places—but I must’ve drifted off around two-thirty or three a.m. When I woke around five, a Christmas moose was lying in his empty bed.

A heavy brow squinted my eyes, my head cocked to one side. Was the stuffed animal his?

No. I mean, yeah, I guess. It showed up about a week before he went missing.

What do you mean by ‘showed up’?

Yeah, it was the strangest thing. She massaged the back of her neck as if trying to soothe tense muscles. One day, he just had it. I figured someone here must’ve given it to him.

You didn’t ask him about it?

No. Why? Whaddaya tryin’ to say, that I’m a bad mother ‘cause I didn’t ask where my son got a frickin’ stuffed animal?

Obviously, my question struck an unintentional nerve. Not at all. I took a breath and regrouped. Look. I am trying to help you. In order for me to do that I need to gather all the facts, no matter how minor something may seem on the surface.

Her gaze fell to the floor. You’re right. I’m sorry I snapped at you.

It’s fine. Don’t even worry about it. I waited for her to re-acknowledge me. What day did you say Timmy went missing?

November thirteenth. Five weeks ago. She smacked her forehead over and over. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s all my fault. Timmy, she cried out, falling to her knees. I’m so sorry, honey.

Hey, now. I knelt in front of her. I’ve been where you are. Well, sort of. What I mean is, I know you’re in excruciating pain, I really do, but you cannot blame yourself. The only thing you’re guilty of is being human. Easy to say those words. A lot harder to live by them.

Cheryl cupped her hands around mine, a pleading in her eyes. Then you’ll help me?

I can’t promise I can bring Timmy home, but you have my word that I will do everything in my power to find answers. How, I had no idea.

I wrapped my arms around her, and she sobbed on my shoulder. Holding her even tighter, I smoothed my palm across her back. Let me get you out of this place, Cheryl. If I paid for a hotel while we find you more permanent housing, would you go?

She jerked out of the embrace. I can’t leave, she said, wringing her hands. What if Timmy comes back?

The odds of finding a missing child dwindled with each passing hour. After several weeks, the chances of a reunion narrowed even more. Still, I could not crush this poor mother’s hope. Nor would I.

Using my cell phone, I took a quick snapshot of Timmy Racine and returned the photograph to his grieving mother. Did you or your son know any of the other Missing Boys?

She gasped. What?

You didn’t know? My gaze zoomed through the open room, searching for a TV or radio, but the fading sunshine-yellow walls were all bare. If the residents of the shelter chose not to venture beyond the building, they remained out of touch with the outside world. Perhaps they found comfort in solitude.

I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but— I swallowed hard, regrouped— four other boys are also missing. From what I understand, each abduction occurred within a week of the previous one. Timmy makes five Missing Boys, total.

Bloody hell. The news acted as an uppercut, a direct hit beneath her ribcage, and she buckled over in agony. If the same creep took other boys, he won’t need Timmy anymore. She cried harder and harder, her chest heaving so heavily her words jumbled with pain, her hands clutching her childless womb. That’s what these filthy pedos do. Once they have someone new to play with, they dump the other kids.

Closing her eyes, her head fell backward. Why, God, why? Timmy, she screeched, mucus draining from her nose. Where are you?

How could I leave her in this state? Wrestling with what to do, I palmed the side of her arm with the gentleness a newborn baby’s cheek . Can I get you something to drink? Water, maybe?

Without warning, she balled my blouse in tight fists. Go! Her eyes bulged from the sockets. Find Timmy. Find my son. The deep creases in her forehead melted away, her earnest tone desperate, hollow like she had nothing left inside. Please… please, Missus Quintano… please.

I will. I promise. Even though I had no idea where to start searching for Timmy, no other answer would satisfy her. What were the right words in this circumstance? This mother was in pieces—destroyed, devastated, dispirited—her entire world imploded the day her son went missing.

The Land Rover screamed out the parking lot exit, my nerves teetering on the edge of uncertainty. Noah’s abduction rushed back with a vengeance, and I relived each blunder, each miscalculation, my faux veneer crumbling, my fractured heart still unable to repair itself. I banged a left up our mountain road. The tires squealed in protest.

After slamming the driver’s door closed, I barreled down the walkway, my legs uncooperative, unsteady. At the mudroom door, I took a deep breath before twisting the knob. Hysterical never went over well with men. Somehow I needed to convince Niko to leapfrog over the detectives handling the Missing Boys investigation, a case the sheriff’s department did not handle.

The moment I strolled into the kitchen, Colt dove off the sofa and met me halfway to the living room, his stubby tail wagging with excitement.

There’s my puppy love. I mussed his furry head. Where’s your brother?

Colt’s gaze shot through the archway to Ruger’s occupied bed. Deep, rumbling snores vibrated the curtains around the picture glass window.

Good boy. I bustled into the room. Parked in front of the TV, Noah balanced on his father’s knees, Niko steadying his arms to keep his tiny feet from slipping off.

I kissed my husband’s cheek. Ran my fingers through our son’s wispy curls. Did you have fun with Dadda?

Big smile. Yeah.

Pumpkin— I crinkled my nose— why are your lips blue?

Umm, Niko hesitated. We may’ve had a popsicle or two, Mumma.

Or two?

News 9 diverted my attention.

During this holiday season, let us not forget Samuel Adair, Timothy Racine, Lennard Darling, Carlton Babcock, and Francis Butch Edgerton, whose families are still searching for answers.

I whirled toward Niko’s La-Z-Boy. Why is the State Police so closed-mouth about this case? They haven’t even updated the families.

Sage, honey, we’ve been over this. He loosened the grip on our son’s arms, and Noah dropped into his lap. Cases stall. Sure, it’s heartbreaking, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. I have no doubt the State Police have worked tirelessly to do everything humanly possible to find the Missing Boys. He kissed the back of Noah’s head, his voice rising a minimum of two octaves. Cops are the good guys. Right, little man?

Dadda. Giggling, tiny Batman slippers kicked up and down. PongeBob?

Wanna watch SpongeBob? I think that’s a superb idea. He aimed the remote at the television, and I thrust out my hand to block the signal.

Wait— I squatted in front of our son. We’ll change the channel in one minute, pumpkin. My gaze rose to his father. Could you rewind the last part of the broadcast, please?

Niko granted my request. After leaving the hospital, he could change his middle name to amenable, and it would fit. He even complied when I urged him to stay away from the office for a few weeks post-surgery. Coming that close to death scared him into compliance. Granted, the last couple of days he started to get antsy, evident by the way he checked his phone for messages every ten to fifteen minutes.

The end of the newscast replayed…

Our hearts and prayers go out to the families. If you have any information about the whereabouts of the Missing Boys, please call 1-800-LOST-BOY.

One by one, photographs scrolled across the screen, each innocent face more soul-crushing than the last.

Gaze locked on the flatscreen, I said, I met her today, y’know.

Who?

Cheryl. I pointed to Timmy’s bright smile. His mom.

Timothy Racine’s mother?

Before turning around, I cleared the tears tumbling down my cheeks. Cheryl and Timmy moved to the shelter after losing everything in the Lake Street Heights fire. And now, she’s convinced that I can find her son. I flopped on the sofa, and the cushions hugged my thighs. All she really wants is someone on her side. I don’t think that’s a lot to ask for, do you?

Babe, his tone softened, I know this case dredges up terrifying memories and strokes some of your darkest fears, but we can’t get involved. It’s not my case. You’ll need to find a way to let it go. He covered Noah’s ears. You know as well as I do that chances are, her son isn’t alive. For Pete’s sake, it’s been several weeks.

I arched one eyebrow. Let it go? And what, thank our lucky stars that Noah isn’t listed among the missing? Better them than us, right?

That’s not fair, Sage.

Actually, it is. Because ‘let it go’ implies that as long as no one in our family is targeted, everything’s hunky dory.

He changed the channel to Nickelodeon. Rising to his feet, he plopped Noah in the La-Z-Boy. The overstuffed cushions devoured his petiteness. Niko scowled in my direction, then soldiered into the kitchen—my cue to follow him out of Noah’s range.

Once I strolled under the archway, he stopped me with, What’re you doin’?

What do you mean? I’m not doing anything.

Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t become you. He exhaled loud enough to make his point. Look. You can’t go digging around in an open investigation.

If the case is cold, why does it matter? Maybe I’ll find something the State Police haven’t considered yet.

Sage, he warned, moving closer, you’re a crime writer, not a detective.

Silent, I gave no reaction. That ridiculous statement did not require a response or even an acknowledgment.

As the wife of the Grafton County Sheriff, he ranted, you need to stay out of State Police business. Just your involvement might harm my interagency relations. Is that what you want?

All of Me by John Legend blasted from his cell phone. Nice ringtone, babe, he said with a wink, as though the matter was now closed and I’d agreed to do things his way. After two decades together, he should know me better than that.

Sheriff Quintano, he answered. Yeah. Okay. Pause. Well, was the cover off? Maybe it was an accident. In which case, local PD can handle it. He paused again, listening to the caller. Wow. Now that’s a different story. All right. Umm… Guilt rolled over his face, and he turned his back to whisper, I’ll meetcha in ten. He slid the cell into the pocket of his chinos.

I crossed my arms. Thought we agreed you wouldn’t return till tomorrow.

We did, babe, but Frankie really needs my help. Besides, it’s only one day early. He rotated the shoulder where the bullet entered. See? Full range. It’s all good.

We both know the shoulder wasn’t the problem. I firmed a hand on my hip. The only reason Frankie would drag you back to work is if she had a homicide. So, who’s dead and where?

No idea. He tucked me into his strong chest, his chin resting on the top of my head.