Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (22 page)

They had slept and woke in the darkness, huddled beneath the trees. It had been a whole day since the ranger stalked past them, headed in a northerly direction, rifle muzzle balanced against his shoulder. He was smart and he was quick, and Ramsey said if they didn’t keep moving, they’d be skinned like two ground squirrels before the night was out.

Adam lifted his head from Ramsey’s shoulder, opened his eyes to another gray world. It had been tough going through the hills, up and down, up and down. It was the down that had made his calves sore and the lack of food that made him weary.

“Are there bears out here?” he asked.

“A few.”

“Will they come out and get us.”

“Not if we make a noise.”

“You said not to make a noise because of the rangers.”

“I said that?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t make a noise.”

They waded through pine needles and slippery roots by day and aired blistered feet at night. And sometimes when they staggered downhill they could see the bleak sky through the trees and wonder how much further.

Ramsey said the ranger was about three hundred yards ahead. Said he was hiding out near a stream, waiting for them to fill up their bottles. Said he could hear his feet stirring the water with a gentle slosh. Said it was good to keep the enemy in your sights.

“What if there isn’t a stream?” Adam asked, shading his face from a sudden burst of sunlight. “What if we run out of iodine tablets?”

“We’ll suck leaves and strain rainwater through a sock.” Ramsey sounded impatient, had a slight snigger to his voice like he thought it was funny. He also had a yellow-white tinge to his cheeks like one of those perfumed candles Adam’s mom liked to burn. Here they were like two hunted animals that didn’t know which way to go.

“You do know which way, don’t you?” Adam said, watching the light bouncing off the compass in his hand.

“West. That way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

His eyes were heavy and he seemed to be looking for somewhere to sleep. Sometimes he frowned and stared off into the distance, sometimes he winced and rubbed the side of his leg. Adam knew he was in pain, couldn’t hide the sudden suck of air between those teeth.

Murphy sprang into the slough at the base of a piñon tree and chased a squirrel. Caught it too before bounding towards a shallow recess of rock further down the slope, a weather-beaten niche nestled in a bay of cliffs overlooking a valley of trees to the south. It was the perfect place to sleep and Ramsey said it was about six feet deep and ten feet long. He coaxed that squirrel right out of Murphy’s mouth and let it go. It looked too gnarly to eat.

They lay against the warm rock and talked about guns and squirrels and campfires until their bellies began to rumble. Murphy lay down beside Adam, taking short, quick breaths and drooling out of the side of his mouth.

“Can’t make a fire,” Ramsey said, fumbling for the pain killers. He threw a few down his neck and snapped the lid shut. “The light will carry those rangers to us. Men like that can smell smoke for miles.”

It was the first time Ramsey had said the word
men
and it struck Adam as different. He had thought rangers patrolled parks, sat in wooden lodges and took your money when you drove in. But not how Ramsey explained it. Not with that hard-eyed look.   

“What are we going to eat?” Adam asked.

“Baked beans.”

“We don’t have baked beans.”

“We do.”

“Where?”

“Found five cans in the cabin.”

Adam opened the backpack, rummaged around a pile of clothing and pulled out the cans and the opener too. He scooped the beans into his mouth with two fingers, swallowed so fast he coughed up a few. Found a small piece of bread, hard as a dog biscuit, and ate that too.

Ramsey said nothing, even when Adam fed the dog with the second can, he just lay there with his lips slightly parted and a soft rumble in the back of his throat. There was a sheen to his forehead Adam hadn’t seen before, tiny glistening drops that trickled down into his beard.

Adam sat staring over the tree tops at the blue beyond and for a moment everything was peaceful. A brisk wind crept through his coat and sweater, and he was glad he was layered up to the neck. It wasn’t long before the day turned to dusk and up in that sky were a million pinhead stars.

He slept well into the following morning, one of those dream-filled sleeps that leaves a dry taste in your mouth. The slack drip of rain and bloated clouds overhead made him sad as did the gray wilderness he would now call home. It was Sunday or Monday, he didn’t know which, but he found himself wrapped in a blanket with a sweater for a pillow, snug and warm like his mom used to do. He tried to swallow a lump of grief then, tried not to cry.

Ramsey handed him a bottle of water and a few dried crackers. He opened the map and laid it out on his knee. “We’ll go west first,” he said, tracing a finger along a deep crease and staring out at the horizon. “And then north.”

“Isn’t that where the ranger went?”

“He went south.”

Sometime after they had packed, a helicopter blew through the valley. Adam heard the thud of the rotors echoing against the cliffs

“Someone must have broken out of jail,” he said. “A serial killer. Maybe it’s the same one that murdered that nasty old man.”

“I murdered that nasty old man,” Ramsey said. “It was either him or me. Or it could have been you.”

Adam felt a tremor in his belly, felt a gasp in his throat. “They’ll put you in jail… send you to the electric chair.”

“It’s lethal injection, son.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Most likely.”

Adam wondered why Ramsey was being so brave about it all, why he was so calm. All he did was squint off in the distance, eyes fixed on that helicopter as the thudding grew louder.

“It’s search and rescue!” Adam screamed.

Standing on the lip of that small recess, Adam was engulfed in a whirlwind of leaves before he ran up the slope, arms waving. He could hear Ramsey’s shouts to stay down but he didn’t care. The pilot must have seen him because that big machine turned towards him, nose down and powering over the land. Adam began to scream now, voice drowned over the steady
thud, thud, thud
, body consumed by a cloud of dust. His voice was nearly at a squeak, arms flailing, neck craning at a dark underbelly as it headed north.

The trees bowed overhead, leaves rustling in the slip stream and Adam ran after it until it was a black speck in a many colored sunrise. Losing it was like a fist to the stomach and he leaned against a boulder to keep from throwing up. He began to rock back and forth, sobbing and groaning and clawing the air.

Then he felt strong arms around him, heard that gravelly voice. “It’ll be OK.” And then softer this time. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“He saw me. I know he did!”

“It’s all right,” Ramsey whispered.

“I’m scared.”

“Only a mile left.”

“They’ll put you in jail?”

“Yeah. Leave me there to rot.”

“But you did it because you had to.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that.”

“They will if I tell them.”

For the next few moments Adam lay against that warm chest seeing nothing but a blur of greens and browns fading into black. A wet tongue grazed his hand, nose nudging his thigh. Murphy was there beside them, ears pricked to a rustle and slide of rocks. It must have been a skunk tripping down the hill, tail sweeping the ground. Raccoons, chipmunks and squirrels skulked in roving bands and rattlers hardly made a noise. This was a continual rush of rocks as if something much larger slalomed down the slope. Adam stiffened just as Ramsey did and they lowered to a crouch.

Another wave of nausea washed over him and he gripped the dog by the collar, leaning forward to listen. He could smell the earth and the last of the rain on the leaves, and he could hear birds and the heavy thudding of his chest. The afternoon was mild and had a strange silence to it and beyond the trees, the northern horizon was a sullen haze that threatened to darken the sky. That helicopter was long gone.

God? Are you up there?

God didn’t bellow through the clouds nor did he whisper in your ear. Adam knew it was the Bible that spoke. His words, not yours. He wished he’d read it more often just to hear what God had to say, what he might do in a lonely wilderness, where he might go.

Ramsey pointed to a narrow track leading up through the trees to the left, not manmade, but a dried up streambed where water flowed down into the valley after a flash flood.

Adam trembled against Ramsey’s arm, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Saw the backpack and the duffel on the ground, knew they had to get out of there and now was their only chance. They stumbled along that wooded track, dog tugging and wheezing and pulling him onwards. Adam prayed for a clear view of a village on the other side. But when they reached the summit there was nothing but rolling hills of brush and boulders and big thorny trees.

He just stared at it all, mouth open, eyes flicking from left to right. No wind. No rain. No sound. He wished he had Ramsey’s binoculars to glass the countryside for signs of smoke, just a simple trail rising into the sky from a log cabin. It was all he needed.

Standing on the edge of that barren outcrop, something caught his eye. To the right was a slope that led back down to that shallow cave and between the trees, about halfway up, he saw a man. He must have been fifty yards away all rigid and black against the hoary shingle, hand resting on the trunk of a fir tree. 

He wasn’t one of those demons Adam had read about, ones that belched out from a pit in the ground and swarmed the earth for a time. No, this one didn’t have wings or a curly tail. This one had mud smeared on his face, a black jacket and gloved fingers he wriggled now and then. He pushed the butt of the gun on his back to one side as he crouched, eyes trained on the southern horizon.

The only way out was the narrow track which snaked around to the south and away from the crouching man. Adam took a step and felt the anchoring hand against his left shoulder.

“Don’t move,” mouthed Ramsey, other hand around Murphy’s mouth. “Not a twitch.”

Hackett was taking sadistic pleasure in making her wait, slouched in that big leather chair and wearing the rare disguise of a smile. Without lifting his eyes from the file he was reading, he flicked a wrist at the chair opposite his desk, pen crawling over the correspondence as if intensifying the suspense.

“You wanted to see me?” Malin asked, sitting. She hoped it was quick. She had a hair appointment in half an hour.

“I wanted to see you yesterday. Left a message. Several, actually.”

A theatrical rummaging brought the offending phone from Malin’s pocket and she turned it over in her hand a few times. Screen was blacker than Hackett’s temper and the battery was flat. “I’m sorry, sir―”

“I would have thought your Unit Commander’s name on the caller ID took priority. Neither of you were at the briefing meeting. It’s not a trivial matter. It’s not just this kidnap case we’re handling. There’s stolen cars at the mall and another break-in at the Norcross Bank. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it would be the fifth break-in we’ve had in six weeks.”

“I haven’t been keeping count, sir, but you’re probably right.”

“I’m exactly right as it happens. Five break-ins on the north side, same window smashed, and customers robbed of their life savings. What are you doing about it?”

What the hell could she do about it? “He doesn’t leave any forensic, sir, and no one’s ever seen him without a mask. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was spending some of that cash. We might have got a whisper.”

“What about the white van?”

“One customer said it was a small white van, the other said it was a big brown Fed Ex truck.”

“Well, it’s a lead, Santiago, which presumably you’re following up.”

“Do you know how many white vans there are on the west side alone, sir?”

“It doesn’t matter how many. We’ve a computer that churns out license plates in seconds. And there’s video.”

“That computer might be smart, sir, but it still hasn’t come up with a name… an address. That takes time and time comes out of our budget. I thought the Oliver case took priority?”

She heard a loud exhalation of breath and a tutting.

“I was ashamed to get Fowler’s email,” Hackett continued. “Fortunately, he didn’t copy it to the Chief of Police. But your performance is below standard.” Hackett put down that file and made a steeple with his hands. “There have been complaints. First off, Fowler reported the smell of alcohol in your office.”

Malin tensed. She had the sense not to ask if Fowler had found any. “Alcohol, sir? Are you sure it wasn’t mouthwash?”

“As it happens, he did find some mouthwash in your drawers.”

“What was Captain Fowler doing in my drawers? Oh, don’t tell me. Same as he does in every woman’s drawers.”

“He’s also concerned he hasn’t had all the witness reports,” Hackett muttered, eyes still running along a series of words he clearly wasn’t reading. “The housekeeper. What’s her name?”

Malin waited for Hackett to read it out aloud. It wasn’t like this was a game of Trivial Pursuit and besides she had a sneaky feeling Temeke left that particular witness report in the car. “I’ll get it to you first thing tomorrow, sir.”

“See that you do. Two things. Tell Temeke, no more sleeping in the cells. Hotel’s full tonight. Oh, a small bit of news. Officer Running Hawk’s air team got a sighting on a man and a young boy in the mountains, headed towards Pleasanton. Can’t confirm its Adam Oliver.”

“That’s good news, sir.”

“It could be a false alarm.” Hackett stared over those half-moon glasses and took a deep breath. “I also had a call from Mrs. Oliver this morning. Said you upset her husband in hospital. Can’t have detectives upsetting victims. He could die, you know.”

Malin had hardly said a word in the hospital and now here she was fighting Temeke’s wars. Her blood was almost at boiling point. As for the mayor, the only thing that might kill him was the bacon and vanilla ice cream.”

“This case isn’t going anywhere. I want cold, hard facts!”

“Give me three hours, sir, and I’ll bring you a cold, hard fact.”

It was early afternoon when Malin left the office. About the only thing she had learned was there was something about Mrs. Oliver that had her radar humming. She was in her frame for better or worse. And as for Ron King of Ron’s Garage, it was a freaking hairdresser dressed up to look like an auto store.

Malin sat outside the small adobe house on Driftwood. Couldn’t see much through the drawn blinds, but the window was open and the soft murmur of voices wafted over a nicely clipped hedge. It was a private house. Private business. But not so private once you’d climbed over the wall and edged your way along the sidewalk and pressed an ear against the stucco. A man and a woman talking about planets, blood moons and what would happen during a zombie apocalypse.

The last thing Malin needed was a herd of zombies raiding the pharmacy up the road. In light of how much medicine cost these days, she began to wonder if it was a bit inconsiderate.

She noticed a lizard as it scuttled beneath a bunch of cactus as she opened the front door. There was nothing glittery about this particular salon. In fact, it had the oily rag, coveralls feel to it and there was a sign in the shape of a hub cap above the front door. She would have felt right at home if the décor hadn’t been so damn masculine. She was going to stick out like a hen in a hog house.

The reception area was small, gray painted walls and a large steering wheel for a clock. Ron gave a throaty welcome, beckoned her over to the chair just as an elderly lady with blue rinse left a tip and waved goodbye.

He was in his forties, gray hair slicked back and a manner Malin rather liked. He didn’t mess around. Covered her in a black plastic gown and studied the style like a pro. They agreed on a dry trim.

“Where are you from?” Ron asked.

“Originally?” Malin saw the nod through a mist of water. “New Mexico. My father was Hispanic, my mother was Norwegian. You?”

“Farmington,” he said, separating her hair into three sections, scissors snapping as if they had a life of their own. “So what do you do?”

There was no point in tarting up a profession like hers. “Homicide.”

Then came the raised eyebrows, the straight back, the how-do-you-do-it talk and how much the public appreciate all the police do. Ron rattled off a few names of cops he knew. Malin hardly paid any attention. It was the square footage of that tiny salon she was interested in and the room just inside the front door. “Like the garage theme.”

“Thought it worked better with my image,” Ron said and grinned. “I wondered if it would put off the ladies after I repainted the place. Never been busier.”

The room was basic, a sink in one corner and a small chair in the other, and that empty room on the right-hand side of the front door was narrow and dark.

“May I ask how you heard of me?” Ron said.

“Raine Oliver.” There. The name in the papers. The name everyone was talking about. The name Ron should have mentioned when Malin told him she was in Homicide.

She watched that face, saw a smear of pink that started beneath the eyes and seeped down toward the neckline. He seemed to take a couple of breaths as he ran a comb though the final section of hair.  

“Very nice lady. Thank her for me, will you?”

“My pleasure.”

“Awful what happened.” Ron bit his bottom lip. “I hope the police find the boy. You working on that case?” 

“As a matter of fact, I am. How many times do children turn up dead after a week? Imagine, twelve years old, lost in a wood with a madman. Poor kid must be terrified, hoping the police will come. But they won’t. I shouldn’t be telling you this, so keep it between ourselves.” Malin saw Ron nod and drop the scissors in his apron pocket. “There’s some valuable information that went missing last week. A couple of journals from Mrs. Oliver’s bookcase. Probably the cleaner.”

She noticed Ron wipe a glaze of sweat from his forehead and blink, and she carried on. “There’s something she wrote, something important. Something that would help us find poor little Adam.”

Ron put both hands against Malin’s chair and swung his head towards the door. He was itching to get out, wanted to get it over with.

“That’s what I like to see ‒ empathy,” Malin said, pointing at the mirror where Ron’s cheeks had turned a rich shade of puce. “There’s so little of it about. You’d care if it was your son. Got any kids, Ron? Two. How nice. I hope they don’t ever go missing.”

“Would you like some bottled water?” Ron said. “I’ve got some in the house.”

He left then, walked right out of the salon and into his front yard. Malin ripped off that plastic cape and slipped into the dark room, flipping through as many books and magazines as she could find. The sixty watt bulb was barely an apricot glaze over a wrap-around desk and three shelves full of magazines. The only drawer had the remnants of old bills, a calculator and a box of ultra grip gloves. She began to panic.

Peering through the glass door at the front yard and the courtyard beyond, she could see no sign of Ron. That’s when she remembered the water fountain by the sink, full by the look of it. Ron had only gone and done a runner because those journals were here. Somewhere.

Malin rummaged through the product cupboard, reaching behind bottles of shampoo and conditioner and boxes of aluminum foil. And there, balanced on a large tub of pomade were two leather-bound books.

“Let the fireworks begin,” she said, feeling the stirrings of light-headedness. She also felt an unnatural desire to laugh.