Shadow Dragon (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

Montana

His breath plumed in front of him in a silvery cloud with each exhalation. His arms and legs pumped with metronomic rhythm, the thin skis carving parallel trails as they
shooshed
across the snow. He was getting tired, his arms and legs burning from the effort, but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving.

He imagined he was a famous cross-country skier, someone named Hans or Sven, striving for the finish line while the crowd cheered, chanting his name and waving their flags as he passed.

His name was actually Adam Peterson, insurance salesman and part-time ski instructor at The Big Mountain ski resort at Whitefish. He had skied virtually his entire life, and he loved it, especially cross-country skiing. There was nothing better than being outdoors in the crisp, clean air with the sparkling glint of sunlight off the snow crystals. But more than that, it was the feeling he got when he pushed himself like he was pushing himself now. When all the troubles and issues of the outside world faded away until it was only him, his mind focused to pinpoint clarity. Push. Push. Push. Drive. Drive. Drive. Yard by yard. Mile by mile. In touch with himself. At one with the world.

The crunching of the snow and the whisking of his nylon suit were the only sounds to be heard along the valley, but even those sounds went unheard by Adam, who was mentally humming along to the sounds of Kenny G playing in the earphones of the iPod tucked into his fanny pack.

The sun had dipped behind the mountains to the west, the deep blue shadows fading to violet as he stroked along the last few miles of the trail leading back to the road, where he had left his car. He realized he was not going to make it back before it was pitch-black. Even now, it was getting difficult to make out the contours of the terrain in front of him, and he became concerned about falling and breaking a leg—or worse. His rhythm was momentarily interrupted as he slowed enough to pull his goggles onto his forehead in order to see better.

He continued on, more cautiously than before. The shadows deepened among the trees, reaching out across the trail until it was impossible to distinguish them from the dark of night. He was upset with himself for not paying better attention to the time before he had started back, but he had been in such a groove that he had lost all track of—

He was struck hard and fast on the right side like a quarterback blindsided by a blitzing linebacker. The world jerked sideways as he was knocked from the trail, tumbling down the slope to his left. His right ski smacked something, which snapped it in half and wrenched his knee. He cried out in pain as the ligaments ripped and tore.

He rolled over once more and landed on his back. His goggles were left askew on his head, and his earphones had been jerked from his ears, the cord twisted tight around his neck and tangled in his poles.

When he regained enough clarity to try to sit up, he felt a sharp pain in his right side. He looked down and was terrified to see a large gash ripped in his ski jacket. White Thinsulate lining spilled out of the rip, but as he looked, it began to darken before his eyes.

“Oh, shit,” he stammered, his voice trembling with the onset of shock.

He tossed aside the broken ski pole that he had managed to hang on to and tried to pull the jacket open enough to see how bad the wound was. It was dark, and the temperature was dropping quickly. If he was unable to make it back to his car, he might freeze to death overnight.

With his earphones pulled from his ears, he was able to hear a rustling sound above him, one like the whistling of wind through the trees but different. He struggled to turn his head to look behind him for the source of the sound.

At first, he was unable to make out anything in the blue-black depths beneath the trees. But then he saw it—a rapidly moving blur amid the darkness. It was like looking through a window filled with wavy imperfections. He watched in confusion as it moved across the landscape, a shadow among the darkness, shifting and changing as it went. At first, he thought it might be another skier, but as he watched, he noticed the shape was moving through the trees at a speed no skier could match. It made a wide sweeping arc, its motion fluid and graceful. As the shadow swept down the hillside, Adam realized it was coming toward him, its speed increasing as it drew nearer. He grabbed at the other ski pole lying a few feet away.

He was too slow.

The shadow slammed into him, knocking the breath from him and driving him deeper into the powdery snow. He flailed wildly, trying to knock it loose, but it bore down on him like an avalanche and drove him down into darkness.

*

He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he awoke to the pressure of something on his midsection. He screamed hysterically as, one by one, his ribs began to snap. Blood geysered from his torso, spattering his face and goggles and steaming as it splashed onto the snow.

The lonely scream echoed down the valley before it was suddenly silenced as darkness settled upon the mountain.

CHAPTER 9

Seattle

Kyle made his way up the walk to the house. As he stepped onto the porch, a drop of cold rain fell on the back of his neck and trickled down his spine. Shuddering, he pulled up the collar of his overcoat. He reached for the brass knocker, but the door opened before him.

Bobbi Darrell stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and a faded Seahawks sweatshirt. It was an old one, with the old blue and silver logo. She was an attractive woman in her midfifties, but today, she looked older than her years. The dark circles beneath her eyes made it appear as if she hadn’t slept in days.

“I heard your car,” she said, a hint of hope in her voice.

Kyle nodded. Before he could say anything, she read the look on his face, and her expression fell immediately.

“Come in,” she said as she turned and went back inside.

After they had returned from Montana, Kyle and Lewis had spent days questioning the family, friends, and coworkers of the victims in an effort to dig up leads on people who might have had a reason to kill the men. They had reviewed the backgrounds of the men and interviewed dozens of employees at the three body shops that James Darrell owned, but they had yet to find anything that suggested the murders had been committed by anyone working there.

Darrell had been the sole proprietor of the business, and therefore, no one outside of his wife, Bobbi, stood to gain anything from his murder. According to everyone they had interviewed, Darrell and his wife had been happily married for thirty-one years.

Kyle knew she didn’t have anything to do with it simply from the look of utter devastation on her face the first time they had met with her. It was a look he had grown accustomed to seeing over the past few years.

Kyle followed her into the living room. It was tastefully decorated in warm earth tones, with a watercolor of the Pacific Northwest coastline hanging above the fireplace. Several photo albums lay on the coffee table along with a box of Kleenex. Videotapes with handwritten labels that read “Wedding Video” and “Paris” and “Christmas ’03” were scattered across the floor in front of the TV.

Bobbi picked up the rumpled afghan lying on the sofa and folded it. She laid it across one of the arms before she sat down. Her movements were slow, mechanical.

Without sitting, Kyle took the small envelope from his pocket. Bobbi looked at it for a moment as if afraid to touch it and then slowly held out a trembling hand. Kyle gently handed her the envelope. She opened it, and then tilted it upward so that the contents slid out into the palm of her other hand.

The only thing they had recovered of James Darrell had been his severed left hand. In spite of evidence to the contrary, a part of Bobbi had clung to the hope that her husband might still be found alive. But now, looking at the gold wedding band in her hand, it was as if the finality of his death suddenly hit home.

“No,” she whimpered, clutching the ring against her chest as she burst into tears.

Kyle sat next to her, and she slumped against him, sobbing. He held her gently, waiting until she cried herself out.

Finally, with tears streaking her face and her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, she leaned back and looked at him. “What am I to do now?”

Not knowing what else to say to her, Kyle said, “We’ll find out who did this. I promise you.” It was the best he could do.

They had yet to locate Larry Henderson, and determining his whereabouts, whether dead or alive, was currently their top priority. It had been almost two weeks since the murders, and more and more, it was beginning to appear that either Henderson had killed the other men and then disappeared, or else he was also dead. The border patrol had been provided with photographs and descriptions of Henderson. With the cooperation of the media outlets, his photo had been printed in the newspapers and broadcast on the evening news in virtually every city in the Pacific Northwest. He had also been featured on the FBI’s “missing persons” website.

The report from the behavioral profiling team in Quantico—while not ruling out that the murders could have been committed by an individual staying with the men—had suggested that the crime had most likely been committed by a small group of people. The serial killer theory didn’t fit the pattern, because almost all serial killers acted alone and their victims were predominately female. Also, it seemed unlikely that a single individual could have overpowered four grown men—at least one of which had been armed.

All indications were that the attack had come swiftly, in a militaristic strike, perhaps by a paramilitary group like the Montana Freemen or other domestic terrorists. Marasco, with the assistance of the sheriff’s office, was in the process of investigating those organizations that fit the profile, but so far, he had not managed to come up with anything substantial.

After he promised to keep her informed of the status of the case, Kyle returned to the car as more of the cold rain fell on him.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he used his hand to brush the water from his hair. He then took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial number for Angela. He got her voice mail. “Hey, Angela, just called to see how things are going. Give me a call when you get a chance. I could use the sound of a friendly voice.”

Kyle sighed as he hung up. It had been at least a week since they had talked, and then only briefly. With both of them having such hectic schedules, they kept missing each other. Fortunately, Angela was in the last year of her residency. Once she finished, the plan was for her to move to Seattle, but Kyle had sensed something different about her lately. She had seemed more distant and aloof when they had talked, as if she was having second thoughts.

He flipped down the visor and looked at the picture of Angela he kept there. He had taken it on a catamaran trip from Cancun to Cozumel. Her head was tilted back as she laughed, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight. Even though he wasn’t an experienced sailor—he had never owned anything over twelve feet long—it was still a dream of his to buy a sailboat someday and to move to the southern coast of California or maybe Florida. At times like this, he would look at that picture and imagine himself and Angela on the deck of his boat, basking in the warmth of the midday sun while Jimmy Buffett played in the background.

After he started up the car, he turned on the heater and sat there while the drizzle trickled down the windshield.

CHAPTER 10

Denver

“To Brandi!” someone called out, and everyone at the table lifted their glasses for at least the third time in the last hour. Carrie joined them in the toast, careful not to spill any of her green apple martini. There were eight or ten people from the office around the table, all gathered to give Brandi Utley a fond farewell—but mostly to take advantage of the boss’s open tab. They were in a trendy, new bar in Lodo called Lime Bar, which was a few blocks from their office and just down the street from Coors Field.

True to its name, virtually everything in the bar, including the walls, was painted a brilliant lime green. The exception was the furniture, which consisted of white plastic tables and chairs that looked like something straight out of the sixties. Large flat screens were mounted around the bar, showing an endless loop of computer-animated images.

Brandi was one of the graphic artists on the staff. She had just gotten a job with a big advertising firm in LA, and tomorrow was her last day. Brandi was one of the more colorful characters in the office, quite literally. She wore dark eyeliner, had a nose ring and a pierced tongue, and wore her short, spiky hair in virtually every color of the rainbow, depending on her mood.

Across the table from her, Charlie ordered another vodka and Red Bull. It was his fourth or fifth one, and it was beginning to show. He seemed to be vacillating between morose and loud and obnoxious. Although he had never said anything, Carrie could tell Charlie had a crush on Brandi—in spite of the fact that she was a lesbian—and although he was trying to hide it, he was clearly distraught.

Then Carrie caught a glimpse of someone across the bar that caused her heart to freeze. The place was so dark that she wasn’t sure, but she thought she had seen Bret. The guy picked up his beer from the bar, turned around, and leaned against the counter, his face lighting up briefly in the ever-shifting light. It wasn’t him. Carrie quietly sighed in relief. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she had spent the entire evening watching for him, afraid of running into him, even though she knew he would never come to a place like this.

She checked her watch. It was a little after 9:30. She decided she had had enough fun for the evening. She leaned over and thanked Allan for the drinks and told him she was going home.

“Are you sure?” He practically yelled to be heard over the loud music. “You know I told everyone they don’t have to come in until ten tomorrow.”

“I know,” Carrie yelled back, issuing a fake yawn. “But I’m getting tired, and I need to go check on my cat.”

“All right, you be careful now,” he said with a pat on her arm.

Carrie stood and waved at Brandi across the table, wishing her luck in LA. Brandi blew her a kiss and winked mischievously.

Carrie was still smiling as she walked outside. She loved working with the quirky but talented staff that Allan had put together. There was a youthful energy and a sense of family about the place that she knew would be missing at any of the big papers. That was why she had turned down the offer from the
Post
.

Her car was parked along the curb on the same side of the street about a half a block down. As she neared, she pushed the button on her remote. The horn
bleeped
twice, and the yellow turn signal lights blinked as the door unlocked. She was about to open the door when someone behind her said, “Carrie.”

It was Bret. She didn’t know where he had come from; he had just appeared from the darkened shadows beside the building.
He’s been there waiting for me all this time.

“Bret, what are you doing?” she asked, trying not to sound terrified.

“Me?” he said. “What the fuck are
you
doing? You going out, getting drunk, looking to get laid? Is that it? If that’s what you want, I can give you that.” He spoke quickly, excitedly, as if he was jacked up on something.

He was upon her before she could even think to do anything. He grabbed her and squeezed her arms painfully as he tried to kiss her. His wild eyes shone with an unnatural light. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes.

Carrie tied to pull away, but his grip was too tight. She could feel his fingers grinding against the bones in her arms. She gasped in pain, but this only seemed to excite him. He tried to turn her, to pin her against the car. They were illuminated in the headlights of an approaching car.

Please … stop. Please stop,
Carrie’s mind begged, but the car continued on, tooting its horn as it passed as if in encouragement.

Carrie continued to struggle against Bret, trying to push him away. “No,” she stammered, more of a plea than a command.

Finally, the frustration became too much for him. Bret shoved her explosively, the palms of his hands slamming into her chest. She stumbled backward and fell, scuffing her hands on the pavement as she tried to catch herself.

Before she could gather herself, he was coming at her again, his hands clenched in rage. She knew what was coming, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blows.

Someone coming out of the bar called out, “Hey, what’s going on?”

Bret looked their way and then turned and took off, disappearing down the darkened alley.

Carrie picked herself up off the street as two guys came running around the car.

“Are you okay?” one of them asked.

“Yeah … I think so,” Carrie said dazedly.

One of the guys put his hand on her arm to help her. She flinched in pain and jerked away and then quickly climbed into her car. She didn’t want anyone touching her.

Inside the car, she locked the doors and sat there as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt like she was going to puke.