Deadfall (17 page)

“Can I see your head?” Jessie asked, stepping up with the flashlight.

He turned obediently. There was a swelling with an abrasion oozing a little blood into his gray hair.

“Let’s go down to the house where I’ve got some first-aid stuff and can see to clean this. I’m soaking wet, and we could use a cup of tea. There’s even a little apricot brandy, I think.”

Rudy agreed and they were soon ensconced in the chairs near the woodstove, drinking hot tea laced with the promised brandy, and chatting like friends.

“Where do you sleep when you stay here, Rudy?”

“Oh, anywhere, really—sometimes up in the shed behind the library.”

A grin spread across his face and suddenly he looked like an impish small boy with a secret.

“This time, though, I’ve been two nights in the old A-frame on the other side of the lagoon.”

“A-frame? In what lagoon?”

“Well, it used to be a lagoon a long time ago. It’s the meadow now, since it dried up. You know—that way.” He pointed to the west. “The A-frame’s on the hill on the other side.”

“I didn’t know there was anything but trees on that hillside.”

“Yeah, most people don’t. And it won’t be there for very long. It’s been empty for years and it’s falling apart. Still, what’s left keeps the rain off my head. The basement part of it’s still pretty watertight and snug, if you have a good sleeping bag—and I do.”

Jessie remembered that there was a trail of sorts along that particular hillside, but much of it had caved away and she had never seen any sort of building. It had to be almost invisible.

“Long way from the piano in the shed.”

“Oh, not so far. I like it over there. When it’s stormy, like it is now, with all the trees blowing, it feels like flying, or like a ship at sea, everything in motion from the wind.”

She chuckled. “I guess it would, in this blow. Where’d you learn to play the piano so well?”

Rudy took a long drink of his tea and reached to adjust the position of his damp jacket, which was hanging on a railing by the stove to dry. He frowned a little, thinking, and a faraway, slightly nostalgic expression flitted across his face.

“Well…you see, I used to play before I came here—worked gigs in bars and hotel lounges for a living, back when people used to like to listen and sing along—before there was so much of this recorded music. I haven’t really played in years—couldn’t now, anyway, with my old hands—just on the old clunker here, now and then.”

“You were playing Debussy.”

“Oh, yeah. My favorite. I like some of the classical pieces, just for myself. That one seemed appropriate tonight.”

“I thought so, too.” Jessie had a sudden thought. “Do you play any other instrument?”

“I have a recorder that I taught myself to play after I came here and didn’t have a piano.”

“Were you playing it on Saturday around noon?”

“Yes, I was. It helps pass the time. Did you hear it?”

“I thought it was part of a dream I was having. Where were you?”

“In the A-frame. I saw you land, then come out for a walk, but thought you’d gone down the beach. I was playing very quietly. Surprised you heard me at all. But then, I thought the wind would drown me out on the piano, too. Have to be more careful.”

“Oh, don’t…please. I like it—a lot. Now that I know it’s you playing, I won’t
worry
about it.”

He looked at her closely, assessing the underlying tone of her voice.

“Why did it frighten you so much?”

She hesitated, finding it hard to explain the reasons for her fear, then gave up and told him about the stalker and why she was on Niqa. She found the story pouring out of her in a flood of words and feelings that she hadn’t even shared with Alex—her anger and resentment, the trapping of her sled dog, the horrible idea that someone had purposely caused the wreck of the truck, the threats, phone calls, leaving Knik. She talked for ten minutes, and Rudy didn’t interrupt or comment, just nodded and listened carefully until she ran out of words and drifted into silence.

“The things people do to each other. No wonder you were after me like a bloodhound,” he said sympathetically. “Courageous—the way you stood over me with that shotgun barrel steady as a rock. I must have scared you half to death. I’m sorry, Jessie, but you were heroic, as I think about it again—a
strong, brave lady to come right out after me, when you could have just cowered in here, panicked.”

Jessie had relaxed back into her chair from the rigid position she had assumed on its edge as she related her tale of harassment. She realized that now that it was all out, she felt better, as if a spring had unwound inside her. At his words of commendation and apology, tears began to run down her face without warning. Then she was coughing and sputtering to control them as it all caught up with her: the whole, taut week, the wreck, this night’s strain and apprehension—it was too much.

But in only a minute or two she was over and beyond it—drying her face, blowing her nose with a matted tissue from her pocket, and smiling at her own emotional response. He was right. She
had
taken care of it; had gone after what terrorized her, and knew she could do so again, if necessary. That knowledge was empowering, or would be when she wasn’t so exhausted.

“Will you come down for breakfast in the morning?” she asked Rudy as he was going out the door in the slicker she had loaned him from one of Millie’s hooks, heading for his sleeping bag on the other side of the meadow. He was limping a little stiffly and there was no doubt he would be sore in the morning. She had offered him one of the bunks in back, but he politely refused, saying that he liked his windy hillside perch among the tall spruce. Resisting the smile that tempted her lips, keeping her slight amusement to herself, she realized that there was a streak of chivalry in him that made sleeping under the same roof unacceptable.

“Breakfast? Sure.” He grinned. “I’m bribable. You have any sausage?”

She nodded. “And eggs, toast, cereal—whatever you want.”

“I’m a pushover for sausage. I’ll be down, but not too early. You should get some sleep.”

“You, too.”

In less than five minutes, she had followed his advice—after sliding her improvised locks into place on both doors and propping the shotgun once again beside the bed.

“I
can’t tell her any more than I already have,” Jensen replied with irritation the next morning to Caswell’s suggestion. “Besides, if I talk about it over the cell phone, I could give away too much of our investigation, let the bastard—if he’s listening—know that we’ve got some leads. He’d be able to make it harder for us or disappear. But I really don’t like the idea that there’s someone else down there on that island with her. Haven’t talked to her yet today; the storm’s screwed up the phone.”

“Give it a little time. Maybe it’ll clear. She’s right, you know,” Ben cautioned. “It was probably someone totally unrelated to any of this—someone who never even knew she was there—who’s gone now. How could it have been
our
guy, when he was here trashing the inside of your place?”

“I know. Dammit. But that doesn’t make me any happier.”

“What’ll make you happier is to catch this creep. So let’s get on it. You want me to check on Moule? Call his probation officer?”

“Yes, thanks. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing—exactly.”

“I’m on it.”

“Yesterday didn’t net us much. I still want to find out about Collins—where she is and what she’s up to. I’ll get in touch with Nancy Stilton, the woman who’s living in Collins’s old apartment. Maybe she knows something that will help, but probably not—since she moved in after Collins was gone.”

“Department of Motor Vehicles? She doesn’t seem the type to be registered to vote.”

“Right. Work I can do on the telephone. Let’s get at it.”

A
few minutes later, Alex put down the telephone with a frown and a shake of his head, the result of a trail gone cold. Nancy Stilton, as he had anticipated, knew nothing at all about Mary Lou Collins, except that there had been at least two other tenants in the apartment before she moved in with her children.

He called the DMV, but there was no record of an automobile of any kind registered in Collins’s name.

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one—just that it’s not registered, or belongs to someone else. In any case, it won’t help us with an address,” he told Caswell, who was waiting with a troubled expression when he hung up again.

“I told John McIntire we’d come in to see him in about an hour,” Ben said. “I think we’d better go talk to him about Moule. There’s some complicated stuff going on with this guy. It seems he didn’t learn much in jail.”

“Yeah?”

“Let McIntire tell you, okay? I’d rather you heard it from him. He’s got all the details.”

“Sure. Let’s go. Anchorage, I assume?”

Ben nodded. “Afterwards, we might as well stop in the lab and see if Timmons learned anything from what the team
turned in on your house and that place in the trees behind the dog lot.”

Heading for Jensen’s truck, they met Phil Becker coming in.

“Hey, where you off to?”

“Moule’s parole officer in Anchorage.”

“Got anything for me to do while you’re gone?”

“Yes, actually. I struck out on Collins. Stilton—you know, the one with the kids—didn’t know a thing. DMV has nothing. See what you can come up with in tracking her down, would you, Phil? I’m not giving up on that one. She’s got a nasty attitude—could be a real grudge-holder.”

“Absolutely. I’ll get right on it. File on your desk?”

“Yes. There were some character witnesses in that case. You might see if you can contact any of them.”

“Right.”

J
ohn McIntire looked about the way Jensen expected. His carrot-red hair was combed neatly back from receding temples as freckled as the rest of his face and arms. Eyes as blue as a Celtic sea met Alex’s with a welcoming grin as he rose from behind his desk to offer a hand to each of the two troopers. Two creases of concern reasserted themselves between his eyebrows as he sat back down, after offering them chairs and coffee from a pot that filled the small room with a rich irresistible aroma.

“My primary indulgence,” he told them, pouring three generous mugs full and taking his own back to the desk, which was covered with files and papers. “You want to know about J.B. Moule, right?”

“Right,” Caswell agreed. “Just tell us what you started to tell me on the phone, please, John.”

“Yes, well…” He glanced down at an open file and frowned more deeply as he studied it. “James Robert ‘J.B.’ Moule. You already know his trial history, so I’ll skip that. You were involved in that arrest, Sergeant Jensen?”

“Yes. The assault took place in a Palmer trailer court—a disagreement over a six-pack of beer that Moule started to walk away with after an afternoon of drinking. The guy who rented the mobile home—shack, really—objected and was attacked. He was the friend of a supposed buddy of Moule’s—also a part of the drinking party—who called us and the ambulance. They were all drunk, and Moule has a record of violence, especially when he drinks.”

“That seems to be the pattern—and from his attitude, I don’t think it’ll be long until he’s back inside.”

“Nothing changed?”

“Worse, if anything, but he’s not as dumb as he used to be. He learns quickly—just the wrong things. Time inside just made him colder, more cautious—and slick. He’s walking a very narrow line and, so far, getting away with it, but only because he’s being very careful and very clever.

“He reports to me regularly, does exactly what he’s supposed to do—spent some time in a halfway house when he got out and made no specific trouble there—you know, best behavior? But he’s the type who says just what you want to hear—sneers at you while he mouths all the right words. To be honest, not many of them bother me, but he makes my skin crawl. Has the eyes of a predator—watches you the way a cat watches a mouse, waiting to see if you’re going to drop your guard and give him an opening to pounce and gobble you up, or anyone who gets in his way. I’d love to put him back inside, but he gives away nothing we can use. And he knows it.”

“What’s he doing for work? Where’s he living?” Jensen asked.

“Well, it’s hard to imagine, but he’s living with his father—another piece of the game he’s playing, I imagine. His old man probably abused him as a kid—knocked him around, but seems to have the patience of Job now. The rest of the family won’t have anything to do with him—wouldn’t, even before his conviction—and his sister testified against him. She’s left the state with no forwarding address. Can’t say I blame her, single mother with two small kids to think about. But his dad just
won’t give up, and it can’t be easy—calls me every so often for advice, and I haven’t much to give him. I think J.B. is staying with him for the time being just to keep us off his back—make it look good on the surface.

“He’s been working construction all summer—got out last spring. Couple of arguments with co-workers, according to his boss, but nothing we could pin down. After one incident, the other man involved in the disagreement was seriously injured in an accident on his way home from work—something to do with the brakes—but no one could prove Moule had anything to do with it.”

“Brakes?” Jensen straightened in his chair and cast a narrow-eyed look at Caswell.

“Yeah. They went out, he couldn’t stop and wound up in an intersection where a van plowed into his side of the car. Paramedics resuscitated him twice on the way to the hospital, and he made it. He’s on permanent disability—lost his left arm.”

“Were the brakes tampered with?”

“Not so anyone could positively tell, and there wasn’t even a prayer of incriminating Moule—lot of suspicion, no evidence.”

“Anything else?”

“Not since he got out.”

“But there was that nasty incident on the inside,” Caswell spoke up. “The other thing I wanted you to hear. Go ahead, John.”

“Moule did his time in Seward at Spring Creek. He was part of one of those small gangs of prison bullies; no surprise, given his temper and inclinations. There was a kid, not quite twenty years old, doing a deuce for auto theft—wasn’t a bad kid, just decided to run away from home, but made the mistake of ‘borrowing’ a neighbor’s car to do it. They caught him at the border, heading for Canada and the Lower Forty-eight. Somehow, though nobody could prove it, at Spring Creek he got sideways of Moule and company. Next thing, he was found bleeding in the shop, with a couple of dents in his head.”

“And nothing to implicate Moule?”

“That’s what I mean when I say
slick
. Everyone knew he was responsible, but there wasn’t one solid thing to stick him with; no less than a dozen other guys had been there at the same time, and of course no one was talking—not a word. Some cons even make other cons cautious. They had to let it go—a vicious, calculated assault and he got away with it. Makes me want to puke. Also makes me very careful how I deal with him. I got a wife and three kids—one in college.”

“And the boy he assaulted?”

“Brain-damaged. They’re maybe going to teach him to count—after he learns to talk—but he never will.”

A silence fell over the room, into which McIntire dropped small sounds as he refilled their coffee mugs. After a long minute, Alex shifted in his chair.

“We’ll need his residence and work addresses. I think this one we follow up on now. Keep your fingers crossed, John, and maybe we can get you enough to get rid of Moule for a long, long time.”

“I won’t ask what, but I guess you know about how much that would hurt my feelings.”

“Give us information on the kid he hurt, too,” Caswell said.

“Michael Wynne. He doesn’t even remember who he is.”

“That’s okay. Just putting a finger in every dike.”

“His family’s pretty bitter—with good reason, I think. Tried to sue, but got nowhere with it. Take it easy on them, okay?”

“I think that if they understand we’re on their side, it’ll be all right. Might even give them a little something positive, if we can get him.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“W
ell, here’s Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I kinda thought you two might come rolling in sometime soon.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Assistant Coroner John Tim
mons had whipped his wheelchair around a corner in the crime lab and was grinning at Jensen and Caswell, who had just asked for him.

“Hey, you’re the one who does the rolling, remember? We just plod along.”

“Sure…sure, Alex. How’s Jessie doing? You got her well stashed?”

“You better believe it. Nobody knows where—and nobody will.”

“Good…good.”

Alex knew Timmons meant it, but he seemed slightly distracted.

“Listen. I’ve got a couple things for you, but neither amounts to much. Nothing you can use to establish a suspect, but maybe to identify somebody you’ve got an eye on. Come on back.”

They followed him into the heart of the lab, past people busily working on cases: an artist working with a witness on a computer sketch for identification, a patient technician putting together shards of window glass that were laid out on a table top like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and, as they passed the door, the muffled sound of a shot from an adjoining room, where a tank of water stopped a bullet for use in matching others collected from some crime.

Timmons, as an assistant coroner, was primarily concerned with autopsies and the bodies of victims of violent crime. But his interests did not confine themselves to that field alone. He was a tinkerer and, whenever possible, tended to watch and learn from other experts in the lab and elsewhere. Through the years he had picked up a host of talents that reached into many areas of criminal investigation. Coupled with infinite patience, his knowledge helped to wring useful facts from the details of many cases.

“The dirt on those traps you brought in?” he reminded them. “Well, I kept at it, and there’s one thing I think you
should know. The basic soil matches, and I’m all but positive that it came from the valley.”

By
the valley
, he meant the Matanuska Valley, northeast of Anchorage, that held the towns of Palmer and Wasilla and the community of Knik.

“But it also has chemical traces of conifer wood ash. Now, the Miller’s Reach fire burned half of everything out there last year and put that kind of wood ash into the soil for miles around, but the concentration was heaviest in just a few places in the area, where more of it drifted and fell. Knik Road is one of them.”

“So it shows what we already know—that it was in the dog lot?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t help much. We know it was there. There’s another thing—well, several things, but one that may count, since you won’t find it on Knik Road—cement dust.”

“Cement dust.”

“Yes. Seems an unusual thing to find on an animal trap, because it wouldn’t ordinarily be found where one would be used. Must have come from where it was kept or transported.”

“Doesn’t tell us much—could be anywhere.”

“True. Didn’t I just say it wouldn’t net you a new suspect? But if you find one who lives around cement of some kind…”

“Right. I see. You said you had a couple of things?”

“Here.”

Timmons waved a hand at a nearby table, indicating several numbered plaster casts which Jensen recognized as the boot prints that had been found in the brush at the back of the dog lot at the cabin.

“Now, I’ve tried my best to duplicate the odd pressure that made this print. This is the original, by the way,” he said as he handed one to Alex. “These other four are my own attempts—in the order I made them, with the same type boots.”

The four all looked remarkably similar. Caswell shook his head and turned to Timmons.

“Okay, I give. Let us in on it, John.”

“Look carefully. The only two that come close to matching that pressure are the third and fourth ones. Do you see why?”

Jensen took a long look and made a guess at the slight difference he saw.

“They all appear to have had the weight distributed, like the search team said, to the inside, as if the person who wore them was knock-kneed. But the original and those other two look deeper in the middle of the print.”

“You’ve got it. Ever see a foot shaped to make a deeper impression in the middle?”