Silent Victim (33 page)

A search of the house confirmed that Eric McNamara was gone. The only occupant of the house was the old man, and it looked as though he had been alone for some time. It was amazing that he had summoned enough strength to break out of his room—he was fortunate that the house was old and some of the wood was rotting. Diesel went out to search the barn, while Butts called for Social Services to come get Mr. McNamara.

Diesel’s search of the grounds turned up nothing, so they had to assume Eric had gone somewhere with Charlotte. Whether she was dead or alive was something Lee didn’t want to speculate on; they could only hope she was still alive. As for Krieger, he was beginning to lose hope that she would ever be found alive.

The first thing they did was call both the New York and Jersey state police to put out an APB. Their geographic profiling of the victims turned out to be right. Sure enough, Eric owned his own car, but was part of a conglomerate of limos operating out of Fleet Car Service, located in Riverdale—just a few blocks away from Spuyten Duyvil. It was easy enough to get the car’s plate number; they just had to hope it was in time.

“Who knows which way he went?” Butts said. “Let’s call Pennsylvania, too.”

That made sense. They were so close to the border, and he might have decided to flee west with Charlotte. There was no telling where he had gone—or whether he had taken Krieger with him as well. They gathered in the kitchen to decide their next step.

“Do you think the old guy knows anything?” Diesel asked. He had made a peanut butter sandwich for Mr. McNamara, who sat at the white-painted kitchen table gobbling it down, smacking his lips, taking large gulps of cold milk in between bites. Eating for him was a messy business, given his physical limitations; Lee tried not to watch. The old man kept looking up at the three of them, as if afraid they might leave him.

Butts leaned down and spoke loudly and slowly to the old man, as though he were an imbecile.

“Do – You – Know – Where – Your – Son – Went?”

The old man narrowed his eyes and chewed his sandwich, spewing bits of bread in every direction.

Butts straightened up and stretched his back. “You think he knows anything about Krieger?” he asked Lee.

“Ask him.”

Butts leaned down, his face closer to the old man’s ear. “Did – You – See – A – Tall – Redhead? With – A – German – Accent?” he shouted.

McNamara stared at him.

“The kid keeps him locked in his room,” Diesel said with disgust. “He probably doesn’t know a thing.”

“Eric probably went somewhere he feels comfortable,”

Lee said. “Somewhere near water. But that could be anywhere.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed at a framed photograph on the opposite wall of a waterfall. It was a romantic picture, the water cascading gracefully down a series of ledges, smooth and white as clouds in a summer sky. In the foreground, a young man smiled at the camera, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. He took a step toward the picture, to see if there was a caption, but there was none. He turned to Mr. McNamara.

“Is this your son?”

The old man nodded, his mouth full of sandwich. “Do you know where this is?” Another nod, in between slurps of milk. “Does he go there often?”

Mr. McNamara began gesticulating and making strangled attempts at speech. Then his eyes lit up, and he pointed at his glass of milk.

“What’s he doin'?” Butts asked.

The old man leapt from his chair, yanked open the refrigerator, grabbed a stick of butter, and held it out triumphantly. The consumption of food had apparently energized him. He pointed to the butter, then back at the glass of milk.

“Butter—milk?” said Diesel.

“Buttermilk!” Lee cried. “Buttermilk Falls!” He seized Mr. McNamara by the shoulders. “The photo—it’s Buttermilk Falls?”

The old man opened his mouth and made a sound that was his version of a laugh, though it was more like the mooing of a dyspeptic cow.

“What’s Buttermilk Falls?” Butts said. “You know the place?”

“It’s up the Delaware, near the Water Gap,” Lee said. “It’s a county park with hiking trails. I went there once or twice as a teenager.” What he didn’t say was that his first trip there was with his father.

“You think he took her there?” Butts asked, frowning.

“I think it’s very possible,” Lee replied.

“Yeah, but why drag her all the way up there?”

“There’s been a progression in his killing—from a bathtub to the East River to Spuyten Duyvil, each location has been successively more dangerous and turbulent.”

Mr. McNamara began nodding vigorously, making strained yelping sounds.

“You think he went there?” Butts asked him.

The old man nodded some more, looking at each of them, his face earnest.

“Did he tell you he was going there?” Lee asked.

McNamara hesitated, then grabbed a pencil from a canister on the shelf and wrote on his napkin.
I saw his hiking map!

“You heard the man,” said Butts. “He wouldn’t be trying to protect his son, would he?” Diesel asked.

“When he’s been lockin’ him up for God knows how long?” Butts replied. “C’mon—let’s go!”

As they started out through the dining room, Lee thought he heard something—a faint scratching sound, like a mouse in the woodwork. He turned to Butts.

“You hear that?”

Butts listened. “Naw, I don’t hear anything.”

But Lee heard it again—a rustling, like a small animal burrowing inside the walls. “There it is again,” he said. “I think it’s coming from—from there.” He pointed to one of the paneled dining room walls. A sudden loud clattering came from somewhere behind the walls, like the sound of cans being overturned.

Lee stepped closer to the wall and ran a hand over the wood, which was coated in peeling blue and white paint. He moved along the wall, pressing and tapping on the panels one by one. When he reached the end of the wall, he noticed the last panel sounded different—more hollow, somehow. Then he saw the floor—it had a deep scratch in the shape of a half-moon. He realized all at once that what he was looking at was not a wall, but a door.

His heart jackhammered against his chest as he pushed against the panel where it met the wall—and it gave way. A narrow stone staircase snaked down to a hidden basement—perhaps originally built as a hideout from the Indians who roamed these lands in the nineteenth century when the house was built.

He turned to Butts and motioned him over, a finger to his lips. The detective pulled his gun from its holster and crept toward the stairs.

“Shouldn’t you call for backup?” Lee whispered, but Butts shook his head and started down the steps. Lee followed, searching for a light switch, but found none.

There, at the bottom of the stairs, they found her. Bound, gagged, and exhausted, Elena Krieger sat on the cold stone floor, crumpled amid a pile of overturned paint cans. When they removed the gag, she shivered so violently she could barely speak.

“Did he hurt you?” Butts said, dispensing with the formalities of greeting.

“N-no, I’m okay,” she said through clattering teeth, but she didn’t look okay. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her and she collapsed into their arms.

“Easy, easy,” Lee said, removing his light jacket to wrap it around her shoulders.

They called for Diesel, who scooped her up in his powerful arms and carried her up the steps as though she were a child.

“Now,” Butts said, turning to Lee. “That waterfall in the picture—can you get us there?”

“I think so. Do you have a map of Jersey in your car?” “Of course,” Butts replied. “Never go anywhere without it.”

“Good. We’ll start off on the River Road.” “What are we waitin’ for?” Butts said, fishing out his car keys.

“What if we’re wrong?” Diesel asked, Krieger still in his arms.

“We’d better pray we’re not,” Lee answered as the three of them hurried out toward the car. Mr. McNamara followed close behind, braying like a mournful donkey. Lee was getting used to his vocalizations, and understood this was his way of saying
Don’t leave me.

“Don’t worry, Mr. McNamara,” he called over his shoulder. “Someone is on their way to take care of you.”

The Social Services ambulance was waiting outside, and they handed Krieger over to them to be whisked away, protesting, along with Mr. McNamara. Ignoring the stares of the social workers, they climbed into the old Ford and headed west on County Road 604. The car rattled through the old covered bridge that used to enchant Laura as a child—she always dreamed of living in the little green cottage next to it and being, as she called it, The Bridge Keeper. Lee would tease her, saying that a covered bridge didn’t need a keeper, but she always insisted that it did, and that would be her job.

When they reached the Delaware they took the River Road north, following the river until County 519 cut away from the shoreline. They took that all the way into Sussex

County, at which time Lee unfolded the state map and studied it carefully. The entire western section of the county was a great swath of parkland known as Stokes State Forest. Right in the middle of it was Wallpack Center—and just below it, Buttermilk Falls.

“Okay,” he said, “got it. Just follow Wallpack Road.”

The forest was dotted with lakes and creeks connecting them, and in the middle, where three streams met, was the Falls.

“Okay,” Lee said as they traveled north on Route 206. “Any minute now—there! Turn left on Struble Road.”

They did, following that to an intersection with a cemetery, where they turned left again. If Butts and Diesel thought the cemetery was a bad omen, they didn’t say anything. The trailhead was just up the road on their left. Parked in the lot across the road was a black limousine with a New Jersey license plate.

“Looks like we were right,” Butts said as he swung the big Ford in next to it. He drew his revolver before cautiously opening his driver’s side door, but there didn’t appear to be anyone in the limo. They all got out of the car and tried looking in, but the windows, were heavily tinted, and they couldn’t see anything.

“I’m gonna call it in to the local cops,” Butts said, taking out his cell phone. “Shit,” he said, after stabbing at the buttons for a minute. “No damn signal.”

“Should we break in?” Diesel asked.

“As an officer of the law, I wouldn’t do something like that without a search warrant,” Butts remarked, “but if a private citizen were to do that while I wasn’t looking, I would have no way of stopping him.”

He proceeded to stare off toward the woods. Diesel whipped a long thin wire out of his pocket, inserted it into the passenger side keyhole, and within seconds, had the door open, leaving no scratch marks.

“Jesus,” Butts said with undisguised admiration. “How did you
do
that?”

“Practice,” Diesel said, peering into the front of the van.

There was nothing especially remarkable about the car. Other than the gray tinted windows, which were rather sinister, it appeared to be an ordinary limousine, much like any other. The interior was clean and swept, devoid of clutter. There were two paper Oren’s coffee cups in the holder up front, and a couple of granola bars on the passenger side seat. In the back, a khaki sleeping bag was laid out on the seat.

“So that’s probably where he kept her,” Butts remarked, looking at it. He was very careful not to touch anything, maybe so he could deny having participated in the break-in if it ever came up in court. Cops had to be very careful about these things—without probable cause, a search like this could completely sabotage a case once it came to trial. Lee had seen it happen on more than one occasion, and figured Butts had seen it even more.

Diesel wasn’t so delicate—he climbed inside the limo and sniffed around a bit.

“Don’t touch anything,” Butts instructed. “They might be dusting for prints later.”

Diesel nodded. He took a Kleenex from his pocket, and put it between his fingers before picking up the corner of the sleeping bag. He turned it over and looked underneath, revealing a roll of duct tape. He climbed out and dusted off his hands.

“I don’t see any blood—but he probably used the duct tape to help subdue her. Well,” he said, “shall we go up the trail?”

“Yeah,” Butts said. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the road to the trailhead, where a wooden sign stood at the entrance.

Lee looked at Butts. “It’s very steep. You up to it?”

The detective snorted. “Get on with it, for Christ’s sake.”

With Lee leading the way, the three of them started up the trail as a brisk wind whipped the tree branches, and the sky began to darken. Within minutes they heard the patter of raindrops on the canopy of leaves above them. Soon the droplets began to thicken, piercing the cover of the forest and falling upon their faces and shoulders, quickly soaking through their clothing.

“Great, just great,” Butts muttered as he trudged behind Lee. “That’s all we needed.”

Charlotte was tired … so very tired. She just wanted it all to end. Trudging up the hill in front of her captor, she stumbled on the rocky trail, her head still fuzzy from the laudanum and whatever he had injected her with. Every time she lost her footing, he poked her with his hiking stick and commanded her to move along. She tried hard not to trip, but she was so tired, and it was so difficult walking with her hands bound in front of her. She didn’t know where he was taking her and hardly cared. She just wanted to lie down among the leaves and bushes and go back to sleep.

After falling into his arms in her room the previous night, she had slept a dreamless, drugged sleep, regaining consciousness in a moving vehicle. She was aware that it was now daytime. The light hurt her eyes, even though the windows were tinted, blocking out much of the brightness. After a few moments she realized she was in the back of a limo, lying on a sleeping bag. The glass partition separating her from the driver was closed, but she could see the back of his head from where she lay. When she tried to move, she realized her hands were bound in front of her with duct tape. But the cell phone Lee Campbell had given her was still in her pocket, and she managed to dig her hand in and get out the phone.

Even though her brother didn’t like modern technology, she found it fascinating and had often watched her friends at the hospital send text messages. She was afraid to speak lest her abductor would hear her, so she typed out a hurried text message and pretended to be unconscious again. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest, and her head was pounding. She could feel the blood coursing through her temples. But she was aware that this experience was something Martin would have disapproved of, and, in spite of her fear, was filled with a thrilling sense of adventure.

The limo was barreling along a winding road, and as there was a fair amount of road noise, he didn’t hear her moving around in the back. After a while she struggled to sit up, clutching the back of the passenger seat to pull herself erect. She could make out the back of his head, and it looked familiar somehow….

Now, struggling up the trail to God only knew where, she tried to figure out why this young man had abducted her, and why her brother hadn’t come to rescue her. It didn’t make sense—but then, nothing lately made much sense. Above them, the sky darkened, threatening rain. The worse the weather was, she thought, the fewer the chances that they would meet other hikers on the trail, reducing the likelihood of her being rescued. And now, of course, she knew her captor’s identity.

His voice came from behind her, cutting the stillness of the summer air.

“It’s time for a break. You can sit and rest here.”

She stopped walking and lowered herself down on a clump of moss in front of a thick old oak tree. She could hear the rustling of woodland creatures in the bushes, and noticed the air smelled of mint. There was probably some growing wild nearby. She leaned against the oak tree, its jagged bark digging into her back. Still, it was a friendly feeling—she had always liked trees, and found them comforting. A pair of squirrels chattered and scolded them from the branches above. How nice it must be to be a squirrel, she thought, able to climb trees so nimbly and easily. She looked up at them—they jerked their bushy gray tails irritably, their restless little bodies twitching, ever watchful.

She looked up at her captor. He remained on his feet, standing over her, vigilant, peering down the trail behind them, as if afraid they were being followed. His hand holding the walking stick twitched, and he was sweating.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

His answer was brusque and businesslike. “To the sacred waters.” His voice gave nothing away, but she thought she saw a flicker of vulnerability pass over his face. She decided to take advantage of it—it might be her only chance.

“Why, Eric?” she said softly. “Why are you taking me all the way up here?”

He avoided looking at her. “Because it’s my sacred place. This must be done in my most sacred place. We must go to our fate together—then our transformation will be complete.”

“What transformation, Eric? What are you talking about?”

He still refused to look at her. “My name is Caleb.” “Is that what Martin told you?”

His face reddened, and he tightened his grip on the hiking stick. “I don’t
care
what he told me—he lied to me.”

“About what, Eri—Caleb? What did he lie about?” He kicked at a pebble, sending it sliding and bouncing down the trail. “Everything.”

“Like what?”

“He told me my mother would come back—that her spirit would be reborn in another person.”

She tried to figure out what this meant. Her brother never spoke with her about his patients. She made their appointments, and let them into the waiting room, and occasionally brought them tea, but that was all. She knew little or nothing about their lives, their hopes, their disappointments—or why they were in therapy.

And Eric was a relatively new patient—he had been seeing Martin less than a year. She had seen him in the waiting room, spoken with him once or twice on the phone, but that was all. She knew next to nothing about him. She decided to take a stab in the dark.

“You miss her very much, don’t you?” she said.

His face began to soften, and then it was as though a dark filter passed across his features, hardening his countenance into something stony and heartless and cruel.

“She was—
a whore,”
he rasped, spitting out the words as if they burned his tongue.

“But—you loved her, didn’t you?” she cried desperately. The air itself seemed to turn colder, as a chill wind blew up out of nowhere, scattering dry leaves in little gusts. They seemed to scurry from it in terror, as if they shared her sense of alarm. A few drops of rain spattered against the leaves, flattening them, cutting off their escape. A hollow, panicked feeling gnawed at the pit of her stomach.

“Miss her?” he said, his voice flat and mocking. “I
hate
her. I hate
you.”

A thin cruel smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and she knew she was lost.