Darkness peering (29 page)

"I've already spoken to my lawyer, Ozzie."

"Merry Christmas, Mae! You and your lawyers."

"What am I supposed to do? I have a life. And Steve can provide for
us ..

"Steve." He spat the name out.

"That's right."

"Great." He snagged his jacket and strode out of the kitchen, went
into Colette's room and held her tight. "You ready, sweetie?"

"Yes, Daddy." She giggled. Her hair smelled of her mother's shampoo.
Colette's room was filled with a soft pink light, bed overflowing with
stuffed animals--Roger Rabbit, Big Bird, Raggedy Ann and Andy. A w
hole crowd. Ann and Andy's button eyes were pulled off so they'd be
blind, too. Finger paintings

covered the walls, hanging plants late-bloomed in the bay window and a
fat hamster named Dibbs nibbled lettuce in his cage.

She'd always wanted to ride in an airplane. When she was little,
they'd play a game where he'd lie flat on his back and lift her high in
the air, prop her tummy against the soles of his feet, hold her by the
arms, and she'd be flying. Laughing, giggling, squealing an explosion
of mirth. "I'm flying, Daddy!" Magically he made her spin, bob and
weave, and all the while she'd clutch his fingers as if they were vines
growing out of some slippery slope. And after a while she'd be all
tuckered out, arms and legs dangling from the pull of gravity, her
white-blond hair scratching his eyelids like sleep dust, and he'd
gently lower her down into his arms. "No more airplane. Beddy-bye
time."

At the front door, Mae's face was carved out of stone. "Have your
lawyer talk to my lawyer," she said.

"Fine." He wanted to kick her. He wanted to burn the house down. His
house.

"Fine." She shut the door in his face.

FRIDAYS WERE A BUSY TIME FOR COPS IX MOST COMMUNITIES.

You had to break up bar fights and stop drunk drivers, and today was
going to be no different, McKissack thought. On top of the usual
mischief, they'd gotten the lab results back from the semen stain on
the victim's calf identifying the perp as a B secretor with three
genetic markers. Ozzie Rudd had no alibi for the night Claire
disappeared. He was the one who found her crawling out of the woods
three weeks later. His blood type was B-positive, same as the semen
sample; they knew that from the Melissa D'Agostino file. McKissack bet
it was Rudd's semen on Claire's

leg and the only way to determine that beyond a shadow of a doubt was
with a DNA test based on a blood or semen sample from the man
himself.

Earlier that morning, armed with a warrant, McKissack and Tapper had
searched Rudd's empty apartment on Maynard Avenue, then conducted raids
on two homes the suspect was known to have visited. Rudd's ex-wife
indicated he'd picked up their daughter at seven and had driven her to
school, but Colette was marked absent, so McKissack issued an expansive
radio alert over scrambled police channels, informing surrounding law
enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for Rudd's truck.

McKissack was pumped. They had enough to convict, and although they
hadn't found evidence of Nicole or Dinger or Claire inside the
apartment, they'd swept the area with wide transparent tape to collect
fibers and hairs for future prosecution. McKissack was convinced he
could wring a confession out of Rudd, and along with it the location of
the remaining victims, dead or alive. All they had to do now was find
him.

McKissack was on his way back to the station when he spotted Rudd's
Long Ranger pulling out onto Montalbanco Drive. Heart hammering in his
chest, he made a U-turn and radioed in. "I've located the vehicle ...
it's traveling erratically ... just crossed over the double yellow
lines and swerved back ..."

McKissack checked that his weapon was loaded. Rudd's ex wife claimed
he didn't own a gun, but you never knew. An officer was allowed to use
whatever reasonable non deadly force was necessary to make an arrest
and to protect himself and the public from bodily harm. If Ozzie Rudd
fired a gun, that would justify the use of deadly force, but then
McKissack might never find out where the bodies were buried.

He'd gone to work with a gun on his hip almost every day of his life,
and now it was burning a hole in his side. He could practically taste
this arrest. Just trying to make the mean streets of our community a
little safer.

"what if you lived with daddy always? would you like that?" Ozzie
handed Colette a Milky Way, which she quickly unwrapped and devoured,
melted chocolate dappling her chin. They bounced along in the cab of
his eighteen-wheeler, wind roaring through the open windows, rain
spattering the windshield as they climbed the hill past ancient
toppling bed-and breakfasts, heading north toward Aspen Park. In the
early 1900s, preservationists had bought the land, afraid the timber
companies might level the forests.

"Would you like that, sweetie?"

"You gonna move to San Francisco with us, Daddy?" She sounded excited.
Her forehead was damp in the way that only Colette's skin got
damp--that dull luster, as if she were glowing from inside.

"What if we moved someplace together, you and me?"

"And Mommy, too?"

His chest constricted. He couldn't explain what he'd been thinking,
this thing about running away and taking her with him. Just the two of
them. The details were sketchy, but the idea burned through him like
Chinese mustard.

The road intersected with Aspen Park Loop, where they crossed a stone
bridge and ascended a steep hill, twisting away from the valley and
winding further into the woods. He tickled her under the chin and she
gave a barking shriek, then grabbed his arm and held on tight. God,
this unconditional love, this guileless affection was killing him.

"How about it, pumpkin?"

"You and me and mommy?"

"No." He swallowed hard, sand trickling through his body, foot going
numb on the gas. "Just you and me, cuttlefish. How about it?"

She released his arm and let out a shout--of joy? of rage? She
twisted herself into a strange shape, shoulders hunched inside her
jacket like two frightened animals.

"Colette?" His throat was dry and his eyes stung from the gritty wind
blowing into the cab.

"No!" she shrieked, and suddenly she was crying, sobs like giddy notes
blown from an old saxophone.

"Please don't cry." But she wouldn't stop, and he felt as if he'd been
hit by a soft train. He searched for the nearest turnoff as she tossed
her head violently from side to side. "Honey ... Colette? Calm down
now ..."

He pulled onto a soft shoulder, tires skidding on the damp earth, and
Colette flailed her arms, her fingernails grazing his cheek. Her elbow
hit the door handle, the door flew open and she slipped from his
grip.

"Colette!"

She tumbled out and teetered on the soft shoulder, screaming in a
high-pitched voice. His little girl, lost and thrashing in this
nowhere, no-walled edge of highway. She pitched toward the woods, and
he tackled her, and they both went down in the drizzle.

"Colette, I'm sorry," he whispered, heart fluttering like a netted
fish. He held her tight and caught a glimpse of the woods to his left,
its piney undergrowth the kind of place no little girl should ever get
lost in. He both loved and dreaded this faraway corner of the country
with its black cherry, its quaking aspen and stunted, wind-blasted
balsam firs. "It's okay, sweetie, I'll take you home. Everything's
gonna be all right."

Lifting her in his arms, he dried her tears, but now his chest heaved
and he was sobbing. He wept so hard, his knees buckled, and he
crumpled to the side of the road. Shoulders spasming,

lungs hiccuping with grief, he clung to his daughter and sohbed like a
baby.

And then--miraculously--her forgiving hands reached for his face, and
the next sob that escaped his lungs was like the final surrender of all
his bad intentions.

"I love you, Daddy."

"I know," he whispered, holding her, holding her, knowing he was losing
her with every passing breath.

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you, too, sweet pea

RAIN STREAKED THE DUSTY WINDSHIELD OF MCKISSACK's police car as he
pulled up behind Ozzie's eighteen-wheeler, hand reaching in back for
one of the stuffed animals he usually carried to comfort children
involved in car accidents. He got out and cautiously approached Ozzie
Rudd, whose face was wet from crying, and his little girl, who clung to
him like a barnacle.

"Everything okay?"

Rudd peered up at McKissack from some scary, dark place. Hollow-eyed
and deathly pale. "Yeah, we're fine."

"I'm gonna have to ask you to stand up, Ozzie," McKissack said quietly
so as not to alarm them.

Rudd got to his feet like an old man and took his daughter's hand. "We
were just leaving."

"I'm afraid I can't let you go. There's a warrant out for your
arrest."

"Arrest?" He glanced at his daughter. "What for?"

"Kidnapping and attempted murder."

Ozzie stood for a confused moment, grip tightening on his daughter's
wrist until she yelped. "Oops. Sorry, honey."

McKissack took out his handcuffs and ratcheted them down on Rudd's
wrists while he read him his rights, and all the while his little girl
was whining and fussing, tugging on her daddy's pant leg.

"Mind if I talk to your daughter?" McKissack asked.

"If you have to."

"Only take a second."

Ozzie leaned against the truck while McKissack knelt and performed a
cursory exam, inspecting the child for contusions and abrasions. She
looked fine, except for the fact that her eyelashes were wet with fresh
tears. A siren wailed in the distance.

"I'm Chief McKissack. What's your name?"

"Colette." She probed his face with sensitive fingers, and McKissack
smiled and handed her a fuzzy pink seal. "Here, this is for you."

"Thank you." She clutched the toy to her chest.

"You okay? You've been crying."

Her lower lip crimped. "I wanna go home."

"Oh for God's sake." Rudd's mask cracked, and McKissack got a glimpse
of the inner torment that drove him. "My ex-wife's getting married.
She's taking Colette to live with her in San Francisco. I'm upset.
Colette's upset. Been a real crappy day."

McKissack straightened. "Sorry to hear it, Ozzie."

"Yeah, well ..." He stood like an empty grain sack, slack arms
shackled behind him, and blinked so slowly, McKissack thought for a
moment he might be putting him on.

Now several black-and-whites pulled up alongside the truck. Tapper got
out. Keppel got out.

"One of you make sure Colette gets home safe," McKissack said, and
Keppel took the girl's hand.

"Daddy?"

"It's okay, sweetheart," Ozzie said grimly. "The policeman's gonna
take you home."

"Daddy, what's wrong? What's happening?"

"Nothing, pumpkin. I'll be fine."

McKissack escorted Rudd over to his car as Tapper cracked open the back
of the eighteen-wheeler, evidence collection kit in hand.

"Drive carefully," Tapper told McKissack. "It's gonna get slippery."

MCKISSACK PREFERRED CONDUCTING INTERVIEWS IN AS PRIvate an area as
possible, free from outside interference and ringing phones. He'd
decorated the interrogation room at the station himself, had even
handpicked the furniture. Unlike some oldtimers who preferred austere
and sterile environments, McKissack believed that discomfort rarely
produced the desired results. First and foremost, the room should be
comfortable with a moderately official feel--pictures and certificates
on the wall, soft lighting, comfortable chairs.

McKissack led Ozzie into the interrogation room, where there were no
windows to distract, and sat behind a large desk piled high with
folders, thus giving himself the psychological advantage. At some
point during the interview, he might move away from his desk and sit in
a chair opposite the one Ozzie now occupied, thereby demonstrating
empathy and trust. To get a person to confess, you needed to gain
their confidence. Ninety percent of the time, they wanted to get it
off their chest. Whenever McKissack detected the suspect was on the
verge of confessing, he'd move his chair so close, their knees
practically touched.

"Make yourself comfortable," he began, uncapping his pen. "You're
gonna be here awhile."

Ozzie slumped in his seat. "Do you mind telling me what this is all
about?"

"We found a semen stain on Claire Castillo's leg. Just got the results
back from the lab today. Secretor. B-positive blood type. We'd like
a blood sample to determine whether or not the genetic markers match
yours. But I can tell you right now ... that was your semen on the
victim's leg."

McKissack stared at the man he was about to interrogate. Rudd wore
rain-splattered jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, a leather bomber
jacket and shitkickers. The shitkickers were dusty except where fat
raindrops had exploded on the yellowish leather as he'd run from his
truck into the station. He had broad shoulders and a beer belly, was
no taller than McKissack but heavier by about twenty pounds. He had a
trucker's tan--arms and neck only--and his facial expressions ranged
from don'tgivea-shit to fuck-you-asshole.

"Christ." Rudd shifted in his seat, an odd smile blooming. "That's
what you're arresting me for?"

"That's right."

Rudd almost laughed. Shook his head. "You're way off base."

McKissack frowned. "Why don't you tell me your side of the story?
I'll write down your statement and then you can read and sign it. Fair
enough?"

"I'd be delighted to give you my statement, Chief."

McKissack nodded.

Oz.zie's face grew solemn, "When she crawled out of the woods, I
practically shit my pants."