The Shadowkiller (24 page)

“Just my bosses, the sheriff and undersheriff, also the forensic tech and Carillo. Maybe a few others. That's it.”

“But Carillo thinks it's this computer guy?”

Mac nodded. “He and our bosses just aren't all that open-minded about my theory. They're looking right at this huge-ass footprint and not seeing it for what it is. Truthfully, it took me some time to accept it too. But we need to get the word out and soon. People will accept it if they hear it enough, especially on TV. Maybe they'll think twice about going into the woods.”

“'Cause the bogeyman'll get 'em,” said Kris with a smirk.

Mac didn't smile. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but there's too much evidence to ignore. And if making this public loosens up my department, then maybe we can stop this thing, or at least protect people. The department's keeping this quiet mainly because they don't believe it. On top of that, they think they'd look like a joke and, worse, have hundreds of kooks knocking on the door. They're probably right about that.”

“Ya think?” she remarked sarcastically.

Mac grabbed her forearm for emphasis. “You've got to take this seriously. People's lives are at stake. And this could be an amazing scoop for you. Are you on board?”

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, trying to see what was there. “You're not making this up? You really think this is real?” she asked, now seeming to believe him.

“Are you on board?” he repeated.

Kris nodded. “Okay, yeah, I'm on board, I believe you. So now what?”

“You might be able to interview this guy, the anthropologist. He's a little gun-shy, but maybe we can get him interested. But there are others, scholars and plenty of people who have seen them. I don't know why, but I have a feeling he'll hit again.”

“He?”

“The guy at the U-Dub, he says it's a male.”

“And the Snohomish County Sheriff has been keeping this quiet. A cover-up?”

“I wouldn't call it a cover-up, but yeah, they have. We have.”

“I was really hoping you'd tell me this is some kind of psychotic, deranged serial killer.”

Mac's eyes fixed on hers. “Trust me, this is absolutely a psychotic, deranged serial killer. He's just not human.”

Kris kept her cool as she planned her next moves. She asked a few more questions, then rolled off the bed and went down the hall to retrieve her panties.

“I've gotta get on this, it's big. I'll give this to my news director, see how to proceed.”

“You have to go now? It's close to four a.m.,” Mac said like a little boy who was just told to quit playing and come in for dinner.

“Yeah, sorry,” said Kris, returning with her panties and stepping into them. “I've got a lot to do on this before nine. By the way, will I be able to interview you?”

Mac squirmed. “No, not until things blow over at the department. By the way, how are you going to approach this? Say something like, ‘a source inside the Snohomish Sheriff's Department'? Like that? You've absolutely gotta leave me out of this.”

“I'll figure it out. Either way, I'll protect your little secret.”

Kris got the last of her clothes on, and Mac, still naked, walked her to the door. They kissed and she gave him one last fondle.

“Don't get me started,” he said. “We might have to go again.”

She quickly kissed him and whispered, “Stud,” then stepped out the door. “We'll talk.”

Kris disappeared up the walk. Mac closed the door and wandered back to the bedroom, suddenly unsure of his decision. She seemed to believe him, but he felt uneasy about her reaction. He straightened the bed and climbed in, hoping to get a couple of hours before reveille.

Kris sat down in her car and lit a cigarette. Reaching over, she plucked a tiny item that was clipped to the strap of her purse—a miniature microphone. It's wire trailed inside the bag to a tiny digital tape recorder, which she switched off. She was proud of herself although not quite sure what she actually had. Now she just had to figure out how to play the hand. She was both angry and elated. Elated that she had some tape that just might be solid gold, but furious that Mac had tried with such conviction to sell her on that total bullshit story to make her a laughingstock. But she was about to get even in a way he'd never dreamed of.

Kris drove away thinking of her childhood heroine and how she'd just gone one up on her. Nancy Drew never would have fucked a cop for a clue because Nancy Drew didn't have the balls.

W
hen the nightmares returned, they were different. This time Ben watched as the beast pursued others. He didn't know the people, but he worried that the visions weren't so much dreams as previews…or worse, live action. He saw an old couple and the beast consuming them. The sight was so horrible, it woke him up. He then slept fitfully the rest of the night and finally got up around six.

In the hotel coffee shop he sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice and sifted through the material from his nephew. One item that got his attention was an article and photos of the broken Weyerhaeuser trees. Ben guessed the Web site's creator must be local.

He left his table and found a phone in the lobby. Ben was strictly old school and did not have a cell phone. Though it was early, his nephew David was up. Ben asked him to find out the source of the Web site. David promised to poke around online and call after work.

Ben returned to his booth and ordered oatmeal, prudently opting to forego the ham and egg special. He had a sudden wave of desire for a cigarette. He took a deep breath and focused on making the desperate craving go away.

Purity,
that voice inside said.
Purity.
He listened.

The fluorescent lights in the department burned a little too bright for Mac that morning as he wandered in and headed for the coffee machine. As usual, Carillo's coffee sat steaming on his desk while he made his first trip to the men's room. Mac was downright punchy from lack of sleep and now fretted that Kris might run with the story without first consulting him. He blamed himself and the champagne for his telling her, but it was too late: now the ball was in her court. He had no idea how she'd play it but assumed she'd open a door, and once the smoke settled, Mac would lobby the department to at least examine the possibility they weren't looking for a person.

Carillo appeared and grunted his good morning. He sat and picked up a file folder, which he waved at Mac. “This guy Greenwood. He's the guy, gotta be. I can't wait to see his face when we grill the shit out of him.”

“Just remember what Barkley said.”

Carillo winced. “I know, I know, but fuck this asshole. The guy gets egg all over his face and now I swear to Christ he's killin' people and blaming Bigfoot. How lame is that? You look at his Web site?”

Mac shook his head.

Carillo leaned over the desk for emphasis. “I had one of our computer guys do some poking around on Greenwood and we got a little bonus, a Web site this guy just started. He doesn't have his name on it, but its source is his home address, and whoever's running it is actually
saying
Bigfoot did it. Can you fucking believe it? Gotta be Greenwood. I mean who else, his kids? His wife? No.”

Mac was surprised.

Carillo shook his head in astonishment. “Fuckin' idiot's doing our job for us. By the way, he's saying the department's probably hiding evidence. He's gotta know we saw his fake footprints.” Carillo looked hard at Mac. “What's with you, you look like shit.”

“Mind if we stop at Taco Time? I need some hangover food.”

Carillo's eyes went wide. He laughed. “You? Mac Schneider the Boy Scout? Hangover food? Holy shit, man, whaddya been doin'? You gettin' some?”

Carillo actually seemed proud of him, and Mac was sorry he'd mentioned it.

“No,” said Mac,“nothing to get excited about.”

Carillo didn't believe him and came around the desk, wanting details. “C'mon, man, you're gettin' some trim and holdin' out on old Karl, you fucker. C'mon, partners share. Talk to me.”

“No.”

He knew if he told Carillo anything—and it wasn't Mac's style to kiss and tell—Carillo might start prying and that could spell trouble. Because if Carillo somehow discovered the identity of the woman who had shared Mac's bed a few hours earlier, he would have an aneurysm and the department would spontaneously combust.

Carillo swigged his coffee in resignation. “Cocksucker. See if I ever tell you any more about the strippers I'm bangin'. Let's roll. If we gotta get you a gutbomb, then we better move. You're gonna need your energy to help me beat the shit outta this Greenwood.”

The station's audio studio was empty when Kris arrived and arrayed her stuff on the back counter. Sitting at the mixing console, she pulled out her audio tape and popped it into a DAT deck to dub to disk. With her hands-on technical experience gained between school and small markets, rearranging the tape's contents would be a breeze. As she dubbed off the damning tape while making notes, an audio geek, with the requisite scrawny beard, long greasy hair, and Buddy Holly glasses, stuck his head in.

“Hey, Kris, whassup? Need some help?” he asked.

Kris didn't look up, giving the impression of being perfectly at home. “No.”

“I mean it's no problem, if you—”

“Do I look like I need help, dipshit?”

“Uh, no, sorry.”

The audio geek left. Kris didn't like it when people were too familiar. Just because she was on television was no excuse to act like you knew her.

By ten a.m. Milt Nelms was ready to phone his tardy employee, Russ Tardif. Russ's two-week vacation had technically ended and he should have been punched in and on the CNC bed mill no later than five minutes to seven. Russ was never late and that irritated Milt all the more. The red second hand taunted Milt as it swept the face of the wall clock in his cramped little office just above the floor of Boeing's Everett machining plant. Milt's big decision that morning was trying to make up his mind when he should call. If he waited until noon, Russ would have no excuse. Traffic or not, he should have called to tell Milt he was running late.

Anyway, how much traffic could he run into between the plant and his house? He heard Russ lived way the hell out in the east end of the county, but so did a lot of people at Boeing's assembly plant and they got to work on time. Milt decided to wait until noon, and then Russ better be dead because that's the only thing that would save him.

By eleven a.m. Kris felt she had created a masterpiece. Her editing was seamless. She had been forced to record some supplemental voice-over, but she knew enough about acoustics and mixing to make the presence in the sound booth closely match Mac's bedroom. She was also very curious about the man Mac mentioned, Ty Greenwood. She needed to check him out, despite Mac's not thinking he was involved. Perhaps Mac's practical joke hadn't gotten her any closer to figuring out who did it, but at least it would take some heat off her while adding to her credibility. She wrote out a Post-it to look into Greenwood. As she pored over her notes, the anchor Jerry Vance appeared.

“You're in early,” he observed.

“You're early too. Why?”

“The anchors had a meeting. We've got a new look to some of our features and bumpers. We had to approve 'em. Whaddya got?”

“Something I'll give you for the five. It's big.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, just information confirming the existence of my killer. Straight from the police. It's a recording of a Snohomish County Sheriff's detective telling all. Other than that, it's nothing,” she added smugly.

“Shit…,” Jerry said under his breath. “Is this for real?”

“Of course. And it's white-hot.”

“So when can I hear it?”

“At five.”

Jerry looked skeptical. “Has Doug stamped it?”

“He will. It'll blow your mind and confirm I've been right all along.”

Jerry wandered away. “I hope so. Just let our news director in on it. Now.”

Feeling all-powerful, Kris lit a cigarette and
fuck anyone who tells me to put it out. When this tape hits the airwaves, nobody will be able to touch me.
Kris took a long, satisfying drag and exhaled into the atmosphere of the newsroom. She knew something Jerry didn't: that news director Doug Gautier was out of the office for the day at a Puget Sound broadcasters roundtable in Tacoma and her tape would already have aired on the five and six o'clock newscasts before he found out.