Blood Moon (36 page)

Think. What does the Reaper want
?
What would he do
?

He found himself at the top of the parking lot. The Jeep the agents had been driving was still parked there.

And the full moon was high in the night sky, now.

What would the Reaper do
?

And suddenly he was striding toward the Jeep.

Inside the car he was turning on the lights and speaking into his collar mike at the same time. “Epps, I’m taking the Jeep and going down to Crestline.”

“What happened?” Epps asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Roarke admitted. “I just— want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

He punched up the address on the GPS and started off, under the arched span of the welcoming sign above the parking lot.

Out of the Village and out on the road, he took the snowy curves of highway faster than was probably safe. He was glad that someone had equipped the Jeep with snow chains. Inside the vehicle the heat was blasting but he could feel the chill of the night leaking through the window beside his face.

In just minutes he was turning off the highway, following the signs toward Crestline.

He sped on the road circling the lake, past the darkened, sprawling family homes set back from the road.

The quality of darkness was thicker, here, the full moon high in the sky, seeming bright as the sun, and yet not illuminating the forest below.

His headlights caught the collection of mailboxes, and he made a wild turn down the dirt road toward the lake.

The trees loomed beside the road, slanting shadows in the moonlight, but he drove and drove and there was no sign of the house. The road ahead was so dark he thought he had taken a wrong turn. He leaned forward, stared harder through the glass.

Then he realized with a sickening twist of his stomach that the house was there. There were just no lights anywhere. No porch light, no security light, no inside lights.

He slammed on the brakes and jolted back in the seat, then leaned forward and stared out the windshield, in turmoil. The house was outlined in pure black.

This is wrong, so wrong. Where are the lights
?
Where are the guards
?

He grabbed for his phone and speed-dialed the number for the Crestline guard. His heart sank as the phone rang and rang.

He punched off and dialed the dispatcher. “Agent Roarke requesting immediate back up to the safe house in Crestline. The lights are blacked out. No sign of guards. Send everyone in the area.
Now
.”

He shut out the car lights, shut off the car, and stared through the windshield at the darkness, scanning the front of the house: the trees, the swing set, the porch. The trees obscured everything. The blackness seemed a live thing.

He drew his Glock and vaulted out of the SUV, into the frozen dark. A thin, icy wind buffeted him. The faint smell of pine bit his nostrils.

He approached the house by circling the edge of the clearing, weapon drawn, scanning to all sides of him, cold air sharp in his lungs. To the right a pale figure crouched… he spun toward it…

And recognized the shape of the concrete birdbath.

He exhaled, turned back to the house, and nearly tripped over a crumpled body. His heart was pounding out of his chest as he crouched beside the form, saw the slashed throat, the black blood leaking. He felt the badge, the buttons of the uniform. A deputy.

He stood, wiping blood from his hands, and hustled for the front door. At the slab of porch he pressed his back against the side wall, Glock aimed into the yard, forcing his breath to slow as he scanned the circle of trees. No motion, no sound but the rustling of the wind in the pine needles…

He reached beside him for the doorknob, tried it. Locked, of course. He pressed his back against the wall, gun at the ready in one hand, covering the outside and the door while he felt for the doorbell with the other hand, pressed it hard, multiple times. Not a sound.

Lines cut
, he registered.
Lights, power
…

The Reaper. How did he find them
?
How could he know
?

And then it came to him with a sick jolt.
Piece
, Soames had said. Not
peace. Her radio earpiece. She wasn’t wearing it. The Reaper took it off her
.

He did another scan of the front yard behind him as he pounded on the door with his free hand, shouting, “FBI! Open the door!”

No sound from the house. Nothing.

He knew the door was deceptively sturdy, reinforced. There was no way to kick it in.

He sidestepped off the porch, swiveling, and found the nearest window. Probably reinforced as well. He remembered the birdbath, turned to locate it in the dark. He strode for it, and stood, loath to put his weapon away even for a second. But he shoved the Glock into a pocket, knocked the dish off the top of the birdbath and hefted the concrete base.

He turned and strode toward the front of the house, hurled the concrete pillar through the window. Glass exploded inward.

He drew the Glock again, knocked out the jagged edges of glass and hauled himself through the window, dropped to his feet in a crouch in the middle of the shattered glass, swiveling his weapon in the living room. He slowed his breath, letting his eyes adjust and focus. He saw no one moving.

He swallowed through a dry mouth as his mind raced through his memory of the layout: entry, living room, kitchen to the left, den down several steps to the right.

He sidestepped to the den, peered into the darkness before him… and flinched back to see images from his own nightmares: crumpled bodies of the family on the floor…

No
…

He took a step, stared harder at the shapes… and felt sick relief. Not people. Just couch cushions piled on the floor.

He turned in the doorway and looked back into the living room.

There was a thud on the balcony above. Roarke spun to see a human figure looming up on the staircase above him. A blond man hefting a baseball bat, dressed in sweatpants and sweatshirt and looking nothing like the mug shot of the wild-eyed suspect. The father, Paul Fairchild.

For a frozen moment the men stared at each other.

“FBI,” Roarke said. He yanked out his credentials wallet with his free hand and held it up, open. “Special Agent Roarke.”

“Thank God,” the man said. He lowered the bat, but only halfway. His face was ashen. “The lights went out ten minutes ago. We can’t reach our guards—”

Suddenly Lynn Fairchild was behind her husband, her face as white as a sheet. Roarke looked up at her. “Where are the children?”

“Here. Upstairs in our room,” she said through lips stiff with adrenaline.

“Have you seen anyone?” he asked her.

“No. We can’t get hold of the guards. We called 9-1-1.” Her terror was live in the room.

“Backup is on its way,” Roarke told them tightly. “I need you to get back upstairs. Keep all of the family into one room with you. Lock the door. Stay there.” He stooped to draw his backup piece out of his ankle holster. “Can you use this?” he demanded of Paul Fairchild.

“Hell, yeah,” the father said, striding down toward him.

Roarke handed the weapon up to Fairchild, hoping to God the man would not need it.

Lynn gave him a last stricken look before she turned with her husband to go back upstairs.

Roarke turned to survey the room. The broken window was a problem, now. It left wide-open access to the house.

Where the hell is everyone
? He thought of the long dirt road, the confusion of the darkness.

His mind raced through his options.
Go upstairs, guard the family from the balcony
?

But the Reaper is out there
.

Thoughts flew past him at the speed of light. There was another guard he hadn’t located, probably dead, but possibly hurt…

And the Reaper. I can’t let him get away
.

He froze as he heard a sound from the kitchen.
Sliding
?
A drawer
?
The Reaper finding a knife
?
Or just the heat going on
?

Back pressed against the wall, he slid around the doorway into the kitchen. His nostrils were hit by a strong animal smell. The back door was open, spilling moonlight into the dark room. Two entrances open, now, the window in the living room and the back door. He strode across the room, shut and locked the kitchen door, pulled open the door to the laundry room to check it. The scent of detergent and fabric softener was overwhelming, momentarily blotting out the other smell. But the utility room was empty.

He closed that door and yanked open the back door, pressed himself against the wall. Shielded by the doorframe, he scanned the yard, the empty spaces beneath trees, the swing set off to the side of the house…

One of the swings was swaying.

The wind
?
Or had someone touched it
?

“FBI!” he shouted into the night. “Drop your weapon and come out with your hands on top of your head!”

Silence. He scanned what there was of the yard: dead rosebushes, the wooden trash enclosure…

He heard a
whuuff
… the deep snuffle of a horse… but he knew with a sudden gut-twisting certainty that it was not a horse that had made the sound. He spun toward the trees, staring… and heard an eerie, high-pitched giggling. It froze his blood. He shouted toward the trees.

“FBI, don’t move.”

Silence.

“Come out
now
or I’ll shoot.”

Roarke eased sideways, looking for a better vantage point between trees. The snaking mist and the dead underbrush obscured his view. He tensed at a rustle…

The stalker seemed to be about twenty feet away, inside the trees, just far enough back to be invisible.

There was an animal-like snuffling, then a scrabbling sound that was nothing like human. He twisted toward it, saw flying hair, wild eyes, rolling back like a horse’s in the night…

Roarke only had time to think,
What
— before he heard a thunderous boom. Pain exploded in his chest, and he was falling, hitting the ground.

Shot
…

The blast had slammed into Kevlar, the kinetic force of being hit by a baseball bat. He gasped for breath through cracked ribs, pushed down against the earth with his hands to try to roll. A shadow loomed over him, a gaunt man with stringy, longish hair, and Roarke smelled that animal smell, heavy, equine. The man seized him by the neck. Pain blazed through his chest. And then there was brush of cold metal against his forehead, as the man leaned over to put the barrel of the gun against his cheek… and the horse smell surrounded him…

And then… blood. Blood everywhere. It exploded over Roarke. He could smell it, feel it, hot and thick and gushing. New pain shattered his chest as the Reaper fell on top of him, crushing the wind out of him. The man clutched at his throat and spasmed… The hot blood drenched them both as his heart pumped it from his ruined throat.

Roarke pushed out his arms with all his might… and the body rolled off him. He gasped out, choking through blood. And looked up.

Cara stood above him, a lithe shadow against the light of the moon. She moved forward, and the light glinted off her hair, and her eyes were locked on his—

And then she was jerked back, as two uniformed deputies grabbed her. As Roarke tried to struggle to his feet he heard the jangle and rasp of handcuffs racheting home.

The deputies held her between them, and there was blood all over her, black against her pale skin, and her hair shone in the moonlight, her image burned into Roarke’s mind… as all went dark.

Chapter Forty-four

The Reaper was dead. He had bled out in under a minute after Cara had slashed him, was dead by the time the EMTs had reached him.

The deputies brought Cara in to the station, where Epps and Jones arrested her on suspicion of the murder of the pimp Danny Ramirez. She was transported to the San Francisco Sheriff’s Department County Jail #2, a pre-trial holding facility on the sixth floor of the curved building next door to the Hall of Justice, little more than a mile away from Roarke’s office.

She was being held without bail, as an extreme flight risk, and on suicide watch.

Roarke spent half a day in the Mountains Community Hospital being treated for broken ribs and concussion, then walked out of the hospital without discharge and caught a flight back up to San Francisco.

In one part of his mind he knew that Epps was handling everything that needed handling. Snyder would be digging into Nathaniel Martin Hughes’ criminal and psychiatric history to try to unravel the complex web of factors that had created the monster. Singh would be compiling the forensic evidence Lam and Stotlemyre lined up from the cold cases and the present-day cases to definitively establish Hughes as the killer of all five families. Finally the legend of the Reaper would be laid to rest.

In another part of his mind Roarke didn’t give a damn. He landed at the airport went straight to the jail.

Inside the stifling building he went through security mechanically, turned over his weapon, signed in at the desk, rode the elevators up to the women’s wing.

The visiting booth was a narrow cubicle with an equivalent square on the other side of a metal-threaded glass partition, with a counter on each side

His heart was pounding out of his chest as he sat on the low stool in the claustrophobic room and waited.

The door opened on the other side, ten feet away from him, and the guard let her in. She wore an olive uniform; her feet were shackled, her hands cuffed in front of her. But she sat with grace, folding herself down into the chair.

The phone cord was too short, forcing him to learn forward toward the glass. On the other side, Cara picked up her phone and bent her head toward the glass, toward him, her hair falling around her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His voice sounded hoarse, not like his own.