The Shadowkiller (28 page)

T
he coffee shop less than a mile from the department wasn't really just a coffee shop. They served mostly food there, breakfast stuff all day and night, but Mac dubbed it “the coffee shop” for the breaks he and Carillo took. When they were partners. That was now history. Mac had spent a very uncomfortable morning and a few hours into the afternoon taking care of paperwork and handing some of his active cases over to other detectives. Few would look at him, let alone talk to him. Finally, he escaped out the front door and headed for the coffee shop.

Mac had occupied the same booth for several hours, deep in thought. Sheriff Barkley was furious that one of his top men had made such reckless remarks that had become so public. After a lot of wrangling, Barkley agreed not to fire Mac when Mac offered to take some of his accumulated vacation time, with the caveat that there would be an investigation. Mac felt it was going to be like Old West justice: “Let's gimma fair trial, 'n' hang 'im.” Mac knew his career now hung on proving what was pretty much unprovable.

Forget trying to clear yourself. There's no way you're going to catch that thing, and that's the only way you could explain what you said to Kris.
So the only decision was when to resign. Hell, he was only forty-one and had saved up some money, not to mention a small pension he got from the City of Los Angeles. He tried to tell himself he had options, he could do a lot of things.

As he wallowed, Shelly, the fiftyish, bouffant-tressed waitress, jogged his attention.

“You okay, honey?” she asked. “You look kinda wore out.”

Mac looked up. “Oh, probably too much coffee, that's all. All that caffeine'll probably give me heart failure.”

She smiled slyly. “Oh, honey, I switched you tah unleaded 'bout fifteen cups ago. Sumpin' a sympathetic ear could help on?”

Mac appreciated the kindness. Shelly had served him many times but he knew nothing about her.

“Where you from, Shelly?”

“Arkansas,” she said proudly, then launched into her stock joke, “but no, I never slept with Bill Clinton, don't even know 'im.”

They both laughed.

“There now,” she grinned, “that's the first upturn on that handsome face o' yours all day. Want sumpin' tah eat?”

“Nah.”

Mac looked to the television bolted on a rack above the counter. The five o'clock news was about to begin and he wanted a diversion.

“Mind turning up the TV? I want to watch the news. Channel 7?”

“Anything for you, hon.”

Shelly obligingly jacked up the volume and switched to his station. She felt sorry for the guy. She knew he was a cop but he wasn't like the other cops she'd known. She thought he might be having women problems. Shelly'd been around.

Moments before five o'clock that afternoon, with the apparently violent abduction of the Krinkels, television newscasters all around Puget Sound were preparing to validate what Kris Walker had been saying for two weeks: that there was probably a serial killer at work. Ty's Web site logged nearly a hundred e-mails that day, and despite having an unlisted number, he fielded, and turned down, five phone calls for interviews during the afternoon.

Ty's charade of pretending to go to work had been going on a week and was taking its toll on him. Between Ronnie's remarks the night before about the cops, and the search by the police this morning, Ty needed to come clean and do it quickly before things got completely out of control. Ty decided to stay home that afternoon and face the consequences. But Ty also knew Ronnie did not bluff and that he stood the real risk of being thrown out of the house.

He passed through the kitchen as Greta prepared dinner. “Would you like a snack?” she asked.

He shook his head and headed for the TV room. As the five o'clock news shows rolled their openings simultaneously, he scanned for a channel and settled on seven. The male anchor set up the lead story and the camera cut to a lovely blond reporter, bundled against the chill in front of a farmhouse, a big grassy yard between herself and the home. Above her on the screen was supered the graphic “Murder in the Mountains: Exclusive Report.”

“Jerry, I'm here in the mountains above Monroe at the home of an elderly couple, Burt and Ada Krinkel. This morning their daughter reported them missing and police moved in to investigate.”

The station cut to a tape of an interview with the police. Ty cringed when he saw Carillo's face in the background, but the reporter questioned one of the other cops on scene. They showed the badly damaged window and speculated on how Ada Krinkel actually went through it. Mesmerized by the report, Ty drank in the details: the frightened dogs, the flashlight, the slippers, the torn sleeve. He almost jumped in his truck and zoomed to the site but thought better of it. He didn't need to risk another trespassing rap. Though he wasn't sure it related to his quest, the story was so tantalizing he immediately started writing in his head how he would portray it on his Web site.

Shelly watched as the good-looking cop threw down a bill as he left. He must have made a decision about his wife or girlfriend, because his whole attitude changed just like that. Might have been the TV. He watched about five minutes and it probably got his mind off things enough to think clearly. She wished him well. When she bused his table and found the twenty bucks, she wished him really well.

The camera returned to the blond reporter, but Ty's concentration was broken when he overheard Ronnie talking to Greta. Home early.
D-day.
The news report ended and Ty turned off the television and walked into the kitchen. Ronnie was pouring a soda, her coat still on.

“Hi,” he said,“how was work?”

“Not bad. Well, actually terrible.”

Ronnie was trying to juggle her purse and assorted items, as well as her drink, so Ty stepped in, grabbing the glass. She was headed upstairs, which Ty figured was a good place to talk. In the bedroom Ronnie disappeared into her commodious walk-in closet.

“By the way, the cops yesterday…,” she shouted, almost offhandedly, as if being in different rooms would soften the subject.

Ty set her soda on one of the dressers and sat on the end of the bed.

“Yeah?” he asked calmly. “What about them?”

Ronnie came out in jeans, pulling on a red cable-knit sweater.

“One of the things they asked was where you were a week or two ago,” she said.

Ty leaned back on the bed, his body language unconsciously defensive.

Ronnie continued, “I told them you took a drive early that Saturday morning but came home later. A few hours later.”

“Okay, no problem.” He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “They came back this morning.”

“Who?”

“The cops. They had a search warrant.”

“What?” Ronnie stopped and turned to Ty. “They what? They had a search warrant?”

He kept his cool. “They found nothing. They were here for a few hours, that's it.”

Ronnie was frozen in place. “They searched
my house
? The police searched my house?”

Ty nodded. “It's not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? Oh, I'd say it's a huge deal. So what were they looking for?”

“I honestly don't know.” Ty knew what he was about to say might hit a nerve but he plunged in. “I think it's out there—”

“Oh for God's sake, Ty—”

“—making people disappear and the cops think someone's laying footprints. And they must think it's me. Hey, why not, I'm the go-to guy for kook shit, right? The guy everybody loves to blame for being either deluded or, now, homicidal? Jesus Christ!”

Ronnie came back at him with her own anger. “Don't blame anybody but yourself. But if the cops are intent on coming after you for some reason, we need to bring in some major legal help and now. We have to protect you. I'll talk to Bill and see if we can get our house counsel to find—”

“Forget the lawyer. The police will be off me soon enough.”

“Right. And you're a psychic now?”

With the conversation rapidly degenerating, it was now or never for Ty. “I quit the service. A few days ago. I was going to tell you sooner, but…”

Ronnie was devastated. She looked at Ty, then leaned against the wall, all the fight suddenly gone, her face completely numb. She didn't know whether to scream or cry. She did neither and just stared. She felt her lip quiver but there was no stopping it. One therapist had told her it was like living with a junkie, just like anyone with a destructive compulsion.

He crossed to her but her outstretched hands kept him at bay.

“No,” she said, barely containing her hurt and anger. “Don't touch me.”

“Honey, I need time to—”

“No, not this, not this whole thing all over, the…” She trailed off, tears flowing. “You said you…wouldn't. You promised.”

Ty touched his wife's hair but she batted his hand away, her eyes awash, head lowered.

“Go, leave me.” The depth of her pain startled Ty.

He backed off and looked at his wife with her head buried in her hands. He knew her well enough to leave her alone. As he moved to the door, she said though her tears,“You sleep downstairs tonight.”

Ty took a deep breath and exited their bedroom.

Concern was etched onto the white trash mug of Mr. J. D. Watts. Concern that the pretty newsgirl was going in the wrong direction, and bigger concern over the phone call he'd just gotten. It was Errol Rayburn's parole officer. Now J. D. wished he had that thing the phone company gave you that could tell who was calling. He'd been expecting the call, knowing Errol hadn't checked in because he was dead but was hoping Errol's PO would just forget. He took a deep toke of Sinaloan bud and sat back in the torn Barcalounger he had found by the next-door neighbor's trash.
No fuckin' chance o' that.

He'd been fooling himself and now the pot had him focused on the events that would take place next. The PO would come out, he'd find Errol gone, J. D. would get hauled in, and the shit would hit the fan, which meant they'd eventually tie him to Leon Newburg's murder and probably Errol's too. J. D.'s blood pressure went up as he recalled something about the State of Washington still using hanging. If it came down to it, and he had a choice, he would definitely go with the lethal injection. The pot sent him off for a few moments on a bizarre reverie about various methods of execution and how they must feel. Then he slammed the brakes on his morbid speculation.
I'm callin' the girl.
It seemed to J. D. she'd be interested in his story. And if she used it, he felt the publicity would give him some protection from his bad deeds. He saw lots of famous people on the news all the time who did all sorts of terrible things and they seemed either to get off or get lighter sentences because of their celebrity. He reasoned that coming out with the Bigfoot story would make him famous and pretty much save his bacon.

But J. D. realized if he just phoned Kris Walker, he'd probably get blown off. He had no education and didn't talk real smart, so he knew a call was out. On the other hand if he just showed up, maybe she'd take him seriously. He took another toke and decided to sober up and go down to the TV station the next day.

G
reta was setting places on the table in the family room when Ty entered and quietly informed her,“Mrs. Greenwood isn't feeling well. She'll eat later.”

Chris grabbed a juice and invited Ty to watch some funniest home video show when Ty heard the doorbell chiming. He motioned to Greta that he would get it.

Anticipating a neighbor kid hawking candy bars—or worse, more cops—he steeled his expression. Yet when he opened the door, his resolve to dismiss the intruder disintegrated as he looked into a face he knew…yet didn't know.

“Tyler Greenwood?”

Ty nodded. “Yeah, I'm Ty Greenwood.”

An old, weathered hand was offered. “Ben Campbell. Course you may know me better if I go by my movie name, Chief Ben Eagleclaw.”

Ben was wearing his “uniform” buckskin jacket to aid recognition. Ty eagerly shook his hand. He'd been a fan since he could remember. Chief Ben Eagleclaw inspired a positive reaction wherever he went.

“Please, come in, come on in,” said Ty enthusiastically.

“Am I interruptin'?” asked Ben. “I don't wanna impose. I just thought you might be somebody I'd like to talk to. I think we're interested in the same thing.”

Ty saw both a gentleness and a power of conviction in the old man's deep brown eyes. Ben paused in the doorway as if he were crossing more than just the threshold of Ty's home. His face was suddenly serious. “Above us, in the woods, the mountains…he's up there. I wanna find him. Wanna help me?”

Ty's eyes brimmed instantly as Ben's three words cut right to his soul. To have Chief Ben Eagleclaw come to his home and offer to join him in his quest was a godsend. Ty giddily ushered him in.

“We're just sitting down to dinner. Join us, please. I would be honored. And my kids will think this is better than going to Disneyland.”

Ben smiled and took in the scale of the home. He'd been to plenty of movie parties and this place was big even by Hollywood standards. Ty guided Ben to the rear of the house.

“So, are you doing a movie around here?”

Ty had quickly decided they could get down to real business after dinner.

“No, just here on a sorta vacation,” answered Ben.

When they entered the kitchen area, Greta smiled and said hello, half recognizing the tall old Indian but not sure who he was. She had never been a big moviegoer, even in Sweden. As they walked to the television room to surprise the kids, Ben nodded back toward the kitchen.

“Your wife is very pretty.”

Greta overheard and blushed.

Ty quickly said,“Oh, I'm sorry, she's our au pair and sort of housekeeper. My wife is upstairs. She's not feeling well. Maybe she'll be down later.”

Greta may not have known Ben, but the kids went wild, as if their dad had brought home both Santa Claus and Pikachu at the same time. Ty had spent a lot of time introducing them to his favorite films, so they were cinematically literate for their tender ages. It also didn't hurt that Ben had played the wise old Indian shaman in a recent series of hit films that they loved. Dinner was a delight, with Ben regaling them with his adventures, on screen and off. Ty wished Ronnie would come down. She would like Ben, but he knew she was in no mood.

After dinner Ty showed Ben to his office, indicating two leather, high-backed chairs that rarely saw any use. When Ty offered a brandy, Ben refused with a wave of his hand. “No thanks. Not much of a drinker.

Probably seen too many relatives turn into alcoholics. I think my people have some kinda genetic thing against it.”

There was a soft tap on the door, and Ronnie opened it. She had an armful of blankets and a pillow. She smiled softly at Ben, who stood. “Hi. Ty, I thought you might need these.”

“Thanks. Honey, this is Ben Campbell. You probably—”

Ronnie suddenly recognized Ben. “Oh. It's really a pleasure to meet you, Ben.” They shook hands. “I hope dinner was good. Sorry I missed it.”

“It was real good, thanks. I really appreciate your hospitality. How you feeling? Ty said you were a little under the weather.”

Her glance at Ty and the armload of bedding told Ben it was more complicated.

“I'm much better, thanks. I won't interrupt. Very nice meeting you, Ben.”

“You too, Ronnie.”

She left and Ty poured himself a tumbler of Scotch. Ty could tell Ronnie had calmed a bit, but they had unfinished business.

“How long you and Ronnie been married?”

“Twelve years.”

Ben nodded. “Great wife, great kids…” He paused. “Not a bad house either.”

They both smiled, then Ben got into it. “I know you're looking for it, Ty. Me too. This one, the one here? He's a killer.”

Ty felt gooseflesh on his neck and arms as the old man said it so matter-of-factly. Finally someone with conviction to match his.

“I've been following what I thought it's been doing,” Ty said. “But I wasn't a hundred percent sure. You definitely think there's only one?”

Ben leaned forward. “Yup. He's a rogue. I felt he came from the south. He's alone. He hates us, people that is, and he's stakin' out his turf.”

Ty reeled. “How do you know all that?”

Ben knew what he was about to say might test even the faith of an apostle.

“When I was a boy, my grandfather raised me and taught me the ways of our tribe. I'd been away from that for so long I forgot. That is until recently. Many, many years ago, as a young man, just before I went to war, I met one in the forest near where I was raised. It chased me, just like it chased you in the articles I read. I believe to this day it meant me harm. I'd forgotten it for years until suddenly, about six months ago, the dreams came back, the dreams of that day. It's always chasin' me and just before it gets me, I wake up. But it's been gettin' closer and closer and…” Ben trailed off, realizing his fear of being seized in his sleep might be too far-out even for Ty.

“Anyway, I'd been feelin' this one, don't ask me how 'cause I honestly don't know, but I've been sensin' him more and more in the past coupla weeks. Then the other day I decided to try and find him, first in a dream, sorta. I reached out with something my granddad taught me years ago, a way to travel without physically goin' anywhere. Anyway, when I did that, I saw him. And I felt his heart. It was dark.”

Ty was trying to sort through all the old man had just told him. Ty wasn't sure if Ben was nuts or the greatest find he'd made since starting his quest three years ago. He chose, for now, to believe the latter. “You know where this thing is?”

Ben sat back and sighed deeply. “Not exactly. Sometimes I can getta sorta fix, but it's fleeting.”

Ben paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts. “All living things give off energy. Even plants have these auras. People, they have brain waves, electricity, that goes out like radio signals. Now this is my theory…but didn't you ever have a feelin' someone was watchin' you, or have a sense someone you cared about was in danger?”

Ty nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, this thing, this Oh-Mah—”

“Oh-Mah? I've read that name.”

“It's from my ancestors' language, Hoopa. Sorta means ‘Boss of the Woods.'Anyhow, Oh-Mah, they're like radios, they pick up the signals we give off. But we can pick up theirs too, only we aren't used to 'em so we don't know what to make of 'em.”

“So, this thing reads our minds?”

“Not exactly like a psychic does. This Oh-Mah, he feels our thoughts. But I'm not so sure all Oh-Mah do. The one who chased me? And others my tribal elders told me about? They could. But not all.”

“And you've felt this one?”

“Yeah. He's strong. His mind is strong. And I'm pretty sure he enjoys killin'.”

Ty was trying to picture the nemesis he'd been chasing. “So why does he kill?”

“This one? I think now he kills for revenge, but why I don't know. He also eats his victims, I'm pretty sure. See, Oh-Mah's not an animal, not in the sense of a bear or a deer. He's more like us. But this one, he's different. He's a Shadowkiller.”

“What's that?”

“My granddad, he told me a lotta things. When we talked about the creatures in the forest, he talked about Oh-Mah with respect, even reverence. Most of 'em are good, just like people. But then you got the bad ones, the ones who have a taste for killin'. My granddad called 'em the Shadowkillers, the worst of the worst. They track you quiet like a shadow; they're there but they're not. The greatest hunters in the world. And they don't let you see 'em till it's too late, then…” Ben clapped loudly and Ty jumped slightly. “That's all she wrote. The one who chased me? He was a Shadowkiller.”

Ben decided to lay out his cards, feeling that Ty was receptive. “I'm an old man. In my dreams, the one who chased me, maybe sometimes it's this one, I don't know…Either way, he's been getting closer and closer. It sounds crazy, but if he catches me in my dream…”

Ben paused and Ty filled in the blank. “You won't wake up.”

With that, Ben nodded, knowing he was talking to the right man. Together, maybe they could find this thing, perhaps even stop it, and put an end to both of their demons.

Ty poured a liberal dose of Scotch into his glass. “So, how do we find it?”

Ben stared at the floor-to-ceiling windows, seeing the blackness beyond the glass as a metaphor for the next step. “I don't know.”

Ty and Ben whiled away the evening in the office, then moved to the kitchen to get Ben a glass of water. Ty poured another slug of whisky, his fifth by Ben's count, and they went outside for air and atmosphere. Ty buttoned his coat against the misty night chill and motioned toward a pair of deck chairs by the pool.

“Where do we start?” he asked the older man.

“I know he's not far from here,” said Ben. “He's up in the mountains, probably comes down at night to hunt and eat.”

The night air was still, and a few silent moments passed as they considered the discussion of the last few hours.

“I saw his track,” said Ben.

Ty was surprised. “Where?”

“Up above here. Some people had a truck turned over…”

Ty nodded. “The Allisons. Yeah, I know. You saw a track up there?”

Ben nodded and held out his hands like a fisherman extolling the one that got away.

“He's big.” Ben sat back and looked at the few stars winking behind the patterned clouds. “I don't think this Oh-Mah's gonna leave. I also think he's pretty mad about somethin'. Plus, he likes killin'.”

Ty responded with a healthy pull off his Scotch.

Ben tipped his head toward him. “Don't take offense, Ty, but you drink a lot.”

Ty looked at his glass. Had anyone else said so, he would have been angry, but Ben was his new best friend and the only other constituent of a club that now boasted two members.

Ben continued, “I think you're a good man, but I feel tension in your house. This thing has taken its toll, huh?”

“Yes. Yes, it has,” Ty said softly.

“And the whisky isn't your only crutch, is it?”

Ty was a little surprised, but Ben's guess that he had other means of dealing with the pressure convinced him all the more that this old man might be in touch with a side of the mind Ty didn't understand.

“No,” Ty admitted,“it's not.”

“Doesn't matter what it is,” Ben said, “but you gotta quit, all of it, for now.”

Ty looked at him.
What does this have to do with our problem?
He started to object, but Ben held up a hand and smiled kindly.

“I'm not trying to tell you how to run your life, Ty, but I know we're gonna need everything we got to win. We're up against somethin' neither of us are ready for. He's fast as the wind, strong as a plow horse, and has a taste for death. We're just men. So we gotta outthink him, be ahead of him mentally, 'cause he's got all the other cards. If we're gonna do this, go after him, then we'd better be sharp, 'cause if we aren't and make a mistake…”

Ben paused, leaned over, and touched Ty's arm.

“The one that chased you? How tall?”

“I don't know, maybe seven feet.”

Ben's old eyes focused on Ty's for effect. He liked this young man but needed a partner he could depend upon.

“That one?” he continued. “Yours? Probably a teenager, maybe even a youngster. He chased you for fun. This one? Ours? He's half again as tall and more'n twice as big. If we go onto his land, we're gonna be in a lotta danger. He'll know we're there and he'll be ahead of us. So if we're gonna have any chance, I need you clearheaded. Okay?”

Ty nodded somberly. “Okay.”

Ty held out his hand and they shook. Ty tossed the remains of his Scotch. Ben looked over the half-covered pool.