Chapter 25

25

August 2000

Margo Allen sat on a chair in her kitchen while her estranged husband, Kevin, paced the floor. The deputy that brought her home had suggested that she call a neighbor to come over and take their younger children while they waited for word. Margo shook her head. There was no way she was going to let her kids out of her sight. Four-year-old Toby was sitting on her lap playing with the silver cross on her necklace while ten-year-old Addie sat across from them, staring intently at her handheld video game.

After seeing the medical examiner pull into the Doyles' drive, Margo nearly passed out. She had never felt such fear before in her life. It was as if someone had reached right down her throat and snatched her breath away. The sheriff wouldn't say who was dead, only that it wasn't Becky. The sheriff murmured a bunch of promises and then handed her off to another deputy, who was little or no help.

When she begged the deputy to take her to Becky, he had to admit that they had no idea where she was, just that everyone was doing everything they could to find her. Margo had lost it then and tried to run into the Doyle house. It took three officers to hold her back. She hadn't meant to cause a scene; she just wanted to see for herself that Becky wasn't in the house.

A deputy drove Margo home while another officer followed behind in Margo's car. By the time they arrived at the small gray house on Laurel Street, it was to find her husband sitting at the kitchen table and the babysitter gone.

"Why haven't we heard anything?" Kevin wanted to know. Like Margo, his eyes were red from crying. Someone was dead, Josie was whisked off to the hospital, and Becky had disappeared.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Allen, I'm sure the sheriff will touch base soon. Are you sure there is no one that you'd like me to call for you? A family member or a friend?"

Margo shook her head. She knew that she should call her parents but they lived in Omaha and would insist on making the four-hour drive. She wasn't ready for that. She willed Becky to come bouncing through the front door, out of breath and apologetic for making them worry. Then Margo could call her mom and complain about how Becky was turning into one of those teenagers.

There was a rap at the front door, and Margo quickly stood and then sat back down. Becky wouldn't knock. She stood in the kitchen doorway while Deputy Dahl went to answer the door. He went outside and several minutes later came inside with a woman Margo didn't recognize. She introduced herself as Agent Camila Santos from the Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation.

"Have you found her?" Kevin Allen asked.

"I'm afraid not," Agent Santos said, glancing down at the little boy Margo held on her lap. He kept patting at his mother's face, wiping away the tears. The other child was engrossed in a video game, all the while stealing looks at the adults in the room.

"Ma'am," Agent Santo said gently. "In these situations, we find it vital to have someone here as a support to the families. Is there a family member or friend we can call?" Maybe it was the fact that Agent Santos was a woman, or perhaps because it was her status as an agent that made Margo listen.

Margo nodded and wrote down a phone number and a name on a scrap of paper. Agent Santos handed the slip of paper to the deputy. "Addie, take your brother into our bedroom and turn on the TV."

"Okay, Mommy," Addie said in a small voice and slipped from her chair and grabbed Toby by the hand and led him from the room.

"Oh, my God," Margo rocked back and forth in her seat. "Oh, my God." Agent Santos watched quietly as Kevin went behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged them away. Margo cleared her throat. "Can you tell me what's going on? The deputy couldn't tell us much."

"Mr. and Mrs. Allen," Agent Santos took the seat across from her. "This is what we know. William and Lynne Doyle were killed last night. Their daughter, Josie, was shot. When law enforcement arrived on the scene, Ethan Doyle and your daughter weren't there."

Margo gripped her hands together tightly, pressing her fingernails into her skin, leaving behind half-moon indentations.

Agent Santos continued. "From what Josie Doyle could tell us, she lost sight of Becky. We're acting on two possibilities right now. One, Becky ran away and is hiding somewhere, and two, the perpetrator took Becky with him."

Behind Margo, Kevin continued to pace. She wanted to scream at him to hold still, for once in his life to stop moving. Instead, Margo bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood.

"We have an Amber Alert out for a truck that is missing from the scene, and the picture you provided of Becky has gone out to all media outlets. Officers will continue to search the surrounding area and tomorrow, we will bring in search dogs."

"Search dogs?" Kevin stopped in place. "Search dogs are used to find bodies, right? Do you think Becky's dead?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"Shut up, Kevin," Margo said softly.

He started pacing again, walking the length of the narrow galley kitchen, back and forth, back and forth. "That's what dogs are used for. Finding bodies. Is there something you're not telling us? Do you think she's dead?"

"Shut up, Kevin," Margo said again, slapping her hands on the table. The sharp crack filled the room. The sting radiated through her palms and into her wrists. It was a relief to feel the pain in Margo's chest shift to her hands. She slammed them down again and again and again. Thwack, thwack, thwack.

She wanted the cheap plywood table to splinter into a million bits but still it held. Thwack, thwack, thwack. She curled her hands into fists and tried again. She felt a bone give in her left pinky, but still she pounded on the table. Kevin finally stopped moving and stood, frozen in place, staring at his wife as if she was a stranger. Addie ran into the room to see what was happening, her eyes wide with fear.

Agent Santos, laid her hands atop Margo's so they were pinned to the table. Her skin felt cool against the heat of Margo's. "I know," Agent Santos said in a low voice. "I know."

Margo looked into Agent Santos's dark eyes and Margo knew that this woman had seen things. Terrible things. But there was something else—a tiny glint of hope. Margo latched on to that glimmer and held the agent's gaze. It was going to be okay. It had to be okay.

Back at the sheriff's office, Deputy Levi Robbins entered the shotgun into evidence and put out a be on the lookout or BOLO for Ethan Doyle's Datsun truck, but something else was gnawing at his brain.

Brock Cutter and Ethan Doyle were friends. Josie said they had seen Brock earlier that evening. It was after 1:00 a.m. when he pulled Cutter over for speeding, and he was coming from the direction of the Doyle farm. Levi knew he should have spoken up about pulling Brock over but decided to wait until he heard what the kid had to say. Levi hoped he hadn't missed something important.

He headed toward the Cutter farm but lucked out and saw what looked to be Brock's truck parked at the gas station. Levi swung into the lot and pulled into a spot at the far corner. The heat rose from the concrete in waves and had putrefied whatever was in the garbage can so that it emitted a foul smell. Levi leaned against Brock's truck and waited.

Brock exited the gas station with a Gatorade under one arm, sauntered toward his vehicle, and did a double take when he saw Levi. From the way his eyes darted from left to right, Levi thought he might bolt. "Why you so nervous?" Levi asked. "I just want to ask you a few questions."

"About what?" Cutter said suspiciously. He didn't look well. Unkempt and tired. Pretty much how Levi felt himself.

"About the murders at the Doyle farm," Levi said, watching Cutter carefully.

His shoulders sagged. "Yeah, I heard. It's really sad," Cutter said. "Did they find Ethan and that girl yet?"

"So, you know Ethan Doyle?" Levi asked.

"Well, yeah," Cutter said, taking a swig from his bottle of Gatorade. "We go to school together."

"When's the last time you saw him?" Levi asked, rubbing his neck, his hand coming back slick with sweat.

Cutter looked skyward. "Umm, it's been a while. We got in trouble at the beginning of summer for fighting..."

"Against each other?" Levi interrupted.

"No, together. We ran into some jerks, got in a fight. It was nothing." Cutter shook his head regretfully. "Our parents said we couldn't hang out anymore." The kid was lying or Josie Doyle was. Levi couldn't think of a reason why the girl would lie about seeing Brock Cutter on the day her parents were murdered.

Levi wanted to see how far Brock would take the lie.

"But I stopped you not far from his house last night. What were you up to?" Levi asked. "You sure were going fast."

"I told you, I was late coming home. My dad was going to be pissed," Cutter said defensively.

"You were at a movie, right? What movie?" Levi probed.

"Scary Movie," Cutter said. "I went with my cousin, Rick. You can call him."

Levi nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that. So, any ideas where Ethan might be?"

Cutter shook his head. "Nah, man. Like I said, we hadn't seen each other in a long time. Last I heard, he was grounded."

"How 'bout you give me your best guess," Levi pushed.

"I don't know, he liked to go fishing, maybe the pool. He dated Kara Turner for a while, maybe over there," Levi said, then drained the last of his drink. "That's all I can really think of."

"Okay," Levi said, letting Cutter's lie drop for now. He'd get him into the station for a formal interview tomorrow, pin him down then. In the meantime, he'd keep a close eye on Brock, follow him. Maybe he'd lead him right to Ethan Doyle. "If you think of anything else, give me a call, got it?" Levi said pointedly.

"Sure thing," Cutter said, dropping his drink into the garbage can. "I hope you find him."

"Me too," Levi said as Cutter walked away. The kid is lying, Levi thought. But why? Was he protecting Ethan Doyle or himself?

Three hundred miles away, not far from Leroy, Nebraska, Nebraska State Trooper Phillip Loeb was traveling west on I-80. He had received an alert to be on the lookout for a 1990 silver Datsun pickup truck and damned if there wasn't one in his rearview mirror. That was some bad business over in Iowa. Two dead, two missing.

Of course, he'd have to get a better look, run the plates. It was probably a false alarm—they usually were.

Loeb slowed his cruiser hoping that the truck would come up beside him to get a look inside, but as he reduced his speed, so did the truck. Several vehicles passed the trooper but the silver truck lagged farther behind. Interesting.

Loeb couldn't get a good look at the occupants in the truck from his vantage point, but he could see there were two people in the cab. His pulse quickened. He needed to get behind that truck. He called dispatch with his position but the closest trooper was forty miles away. Loeb didn't want to wait that long for backup to arrive but also knew that the lives of two teens could be at stake.

Again, Loeb slowed down, but so did the truck, allowing several vehicles to come between them. The driver was definitely trying to evade him.

Just as Loeb pulled off to the side of the road to let the truck pass him, the driver stomped on the gas. As it roared past the idling cruiser, Loeb got a glimpse of the passenger—a young woman who stared back at him in terror.

Loeb pulled back onto the road and began pursuing the truck, now traveling in excess of eighty miles per hour.

"Dammit," Loeb muttered. He flipped on his siren and lights but had to wait for several vehicles to get out of his way before he could safely return to the road. He accelerated, the red needle on the speedometer hovering around ninety miles per hour.

The cars in front of him were quickly pulling off the road to let him pass until there was only one vehicle between Loeb and the truck. The car, driven by an oblivious young man, wasn't slowing down, wasn't pulling off to the side.

Loeb moved to the left lane to pass the car, and that's when he realized his mistake. The driver of the truck yanked the steering wheel to the right, barely catching the exit.

There was no way Loeb was able to follow suit and he watched helplessly while the exit flew by. Cursing under his breath, Loeb slowed and at the next break in the median made a U-turn.

By the time Loeb made it to the exit ramp, the silver truck was long gone.

Agent Santos stood in the middle of Becky Allen's small bedroom and tried to step into the mind of a thirteen-year-old. The room was messy, with an unmade bed and clothes tossed onto the floor. Tacked to the wood-paneled walls were posters of Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, and the Backstreet Boys.

She had looked through Becky's drawers, beneath the bed, in the closet—all the obvious spots—but found nothing of particular interest. A new backpack with the tag still on it sat in the corner of the room next to two Walmart bags filled with supplies for the coming school year: notebooks, folders, binders, markers, pens, and pencils.

From what Santos could see, Becky listened to pop music, read books from the Goosebumps and The Baby-Sitters Club series, and from the crumpled-up wrappers beneath her bed, had an affinity for Laffy Taffy and caramel apple suckers. Nothing to indicate that Becky had a secret life. Still, she was missing along with a sixteen-year-old boy. The question was, did she go willingly?

Santos sat on the edge of Becky's bed and lifted one of the Walmart bags from the floor. Inside were notebooks in a variety of colors and a package of fine-tipped markers that had been opened. Santos pulled out the stack of notebooks. She opened the one on top, and sure enough, Becky had written her name on the inside cover using fat, round bubble letters. She flipped through the empty pages until a flash of color caught her eye.

Santos examined the page crammed with doodles of flowers, hearts, stars, and random letters. Among the frenzy of color Santos's eyes landed on a series of letters traced heavily in blue ink. BJA+ED. Becky Jean Allen. Ethan Doyle.

Maybe Becky had left willingly with Ethan. Young love gone rogue? Another Bonnie and Clyde or Charles Starkweather and Caril Fugate? Star-crossed lovers who went on deadly crime sprees. Santos had a few more questions for Margo and Kevin Allen.

Not relishing having this conversation with the Allens, Santos carried the notebook back to the kitchen. Elbows on the table, Margo was resting her head in her hands and Kevin was talking on the phone, his voice breaking with emotion.

Kevin quickly disconnected his call and, wiping his eyes, said, "My sister. I was telling her what was going on."

"We need to keep the lines open," Margo said sharply. "In case Becky calls."

Kevin began to argue, but Santos interjected by holding up Becky's notebook, opened to the page of doodles, then set it on the table in front of Margo. Kevin peered over Margo's shoulder to get a better look.

"What?" Kevin asked. "It's just a bunch of scribbles."

Agent Santos tapped the initials with her finger. "BJA+ED. Did Becky and Ethan have any kind of relationship?" she asked.

"Relationship?" Margo repeated indignantly. "She's barely thirteen! Thirteen-year-olds don't have relationships. They have crushes."

"I'm sorry, I have to ask," Santos said. "Is there any chance that Ethan Doyle may have reciprocated? Felt the same way about Becky?"

"Ethan Doyle is what? Sixteen years old?" Kevin asked with disgust. "What sixteen-year-old wants to hang out with a kid going into the eighth grade?"

"They don't," Margo said, her voice shaking. "Not any normal sixteen-year-old. Are you saying that Ethan Doyle did this? That he murdered his parents and took Becky?"

"I'm not saying that at all," Santos said. "But we have to look at all angles. All possibilities. I need to know if you have any knowledge of a relationship...any connections between Becky and Ethan beyond Ethan being her best friend's brother."

"No, nothing," Kevin said immediately, but Santos was watching Margo. Her expression said something different.

"Mrs. Allen?" Santos prompted, but before she could respond, the deputy came into the room and pulled her aside.

"What?" Margo asked fearfully. "What is it?"

"I have to step out for a moment," Santos said. "I'll be back."

"What happened?" Margo cried. "Did you find her? Oh, my God. Please, I can't take this. You have to tell me." Kevin crouched down next to Margo and put his arms around her. This time she didn't pull away.

"I promise you, as soon as I learn any information that has been confirmed, I will share it with you," Santos told them. "Lots of tips that come in end up being irrelevant. It's our job to sift through them all. I know it's hard, but please be patient. I will keep you informed. I promise."

Agent Santos left the room with Margo Allen's sobs trailing behind her and stepped outside to call Randolph.

"What's going on?" Santos looked around to make sure she was out of earshot.

"Just got word that a truck matching the description of Ethan Doyle's truck was spotted heading west on I-80 over in Nebraska," Randolph said. "Still waiting for confirmation."

"Got it," Santos said. "I just need to ask the Allens a few more questions and then I'll head over to the church."

"This could be it," Randolph said.

"Could be," Santos murmured. "See you soon." Finding the truck would be huge, but who they found inside the truck, that would be key.

Hopefully, Ethan Doyle and Becky Allen would be safe and the perpetrator apprehended. She prayed the two had nothing to do with the murders—Josie Doyle and both families needed a happier ending than that. But Santos knew that crimes as gruesome as this left behind more than just physical carnage. No matter what was found in that truck, the Doyles and the Allens would never be the same.