Chapter 39

39

August 2000

The front door slowly opened and Agent Santos assessed the woman standing in front of her. She was as thin as a skeleton; her face was pale and pinched. She looked two steps from death.

"He said you'd be coming," June said in a raspy voice.

"Where's Jackson?" Santos asked, her eyes darting around the room.

June sat down wearily in a chair. "He's my son. I love him," she said simply.

Santos knew they weren't getting any help from Jackson Henley's mother. "You stay with her," Santos ordered a deputy.

Santos and her team began with a cursory search of the house. Everything was as neat as a pin. Even the basement with its concrete walls and floor was swept clean. There was no sign of Jackson Henley or Becky Allen. Santos returned to the living room where June Henley sat, watching them warily.

The house, so far, was ordinary—it looked like the home of an elderly woman who had married and raised a son there. There were pictures of Jackson at various ages, of June and her husband on their wedding day. But something was missing.

Then it came to Santos. The house looked like it belonged to an ill, elderly woman, not a woman who lived with her adult son. There was no sign that Jackson slept in the house. No closet filled with his clothes or personal items.

Jackson, for all intents and purposes, did not live in the house. He had another spot, somewhere on the property where he spent his time.

Santos went to the front window and pulled aside the curtain. Outside, Sheriff Butler and his crew were searching the property and the outbuildings. Off in the distance, thick black smoke rose from the burn pile, and along with it, a sick feeling settled in Santos's stomach.

Burning tires weren't like burning fallen tree limbs or yard refuse. It was illegal. Had been since '91. Jackson would know this but apparently didn't care. Setting tires on fire wasn't easy. They burned hot, and once ignited, they were hard to extinguish. And the smoke from tire fires was filled with noxious chemicals like cyanide and carbon monoxide.

June said Jackson knew law enforcement was coming. Being arrested for illegal tire burning would be worth it if any evidence connecting Jackson to the Doyle murders and the disappearance of Becky Allen was destroyed.

They had to put out that fire.

"Call the nearest fire department, and get them out here," Santos ordered. "Tell them we've got a tire fire."

She turned to June Henley. "Ma'am, it's not safe for you to be here. The smoke and fumes from the burning tires will make you sick. We need to take you away from the area."

June's shoulders sagged in resignation, but she got unsteadily to her feet. "You're wrong about this," June said. "Jackson didn't kill that family or take that girl."

"I hope so, ma'am," Santos said as a deputy escorted June from the house.

A sound of a gunshot cracked through the air and Santos rushed outside. The air was thick with rolling black smoke and the smell of burning rubber filled her nose and burned her eyes. She covered her mouth with her elbow and went toward the sound of the gunshot.

The fire was about a hundred yards from the house where the rubber tires were stacked. As Santos came closer, deputies, coughing and wheezing, rushed past her in the opposite direction.

Santos snagged an officer as he ran by. "What's happening?" she asked.

"The guy's guarding the fire with a shotgun. Won't let anyone come near him," he said. His eyes were red and irritated from the smoke. "We caught him tossing some guns into the fire. He's got a shitload of them. An arsenal."

"What about the gunshot?" Santos asked. "Anyone hurt?"

"I couldn't see. The smoke is too thick." The deputy bent over, hands on his knees, and coughed and gagged.

"You go," Santos said. "Make sure everyone is well away from the property. Call in backup." The deputy nodded and disappeared into a black cloud.

Santos knew she should retreat and go to safety too, but the sheriff hadn't emerged from the smoke and she couldn't leave him behind. Shrugging out of her suit jacket, Santos used it to cover her face and went deeper into the smoke.

The pyre of rubber tires was fully engulfed in fire, and Jackson Henley, brandishing a shotgun, was standing in front of it, his eyes as wild as the flames behind him. Several gas cans lay at his feet.

Santos tossed aside her jacket and raised her sidearm.

The sheriff, overcome with toxic fumes, was on his knees, struggling for air. "Jackson Henley," Santos called through the smoke. "Put your weapon down."

"I knew you would come," Jackson slurred. He was drunk, Santos thought, making him more dangerous and unpredictable. His face was black with soot, and his pale blue eyes sparked with anger. "I tried to help that girl. She was bleeding and all I wanted to do was help her. Now you think I took her."

The black smoke was hardening like cement in her lungs. She needed to get Butler out of there; she needed to get out of there.

She considered shooting Henley. It would be the fastest resolution. Santos knew she'd be justified—he was waving a shotgun around. It was almost as if he was begging to be shot. But there were so many unanswered questions that she needed to know the answers to, the number one being the whereabouts of Becky Allen. If he died, Becky Allen could die with him.

Santos made a decision. It was a risky one, but it could be their only chance to learn the truth. She lowered her gun knowing that her fellow officers had her covered.

"Come on, Jackson," Santos said. "Let's talk about this. I want to hear what you have to say, just not this way. Not here. Let's go somewhere safe."

Henley shook his head. "You won't believe me. No one ever believes me."

"That's not true," Santos said in a rush. "Your mother believes you, I believe you."

Henley gave a bitter laugh and kicked over a nearby gas can and it exploded with a loud pop. Jackson Henley watched, mesmerized, as the fire rushed toward him. The flames, following a frenetic path across the ground, coiled their way around his ankle like fiery snakes and slithered up his leg.

Agent Santos tossed her gun aside and rushed toward Henley. Using her jacket, she tried to smother the flames that covered Jackson's leg and had jumped to his arms.

A rush of firefighters in protective gear came toward them. Someone pressed an oxygen mask to her face and she was lifted to her feet.

Anguished screams filled her ears. Jackson Henley was alive, and he would tell them what happened to Becky Allen.