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Authors: Matthew Scott Hansen

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BOOK: The Shadowkiller
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“Don't swim much, huh?”

“Not much. The cover's supposed to retract automatically but it broke and we can't get anyone to fix it until after Christmas. Water's like ice. My wife…uh, Ronnie wanted it when we built the house. We use it about a month a year, maybe two. But the deer and the raccoons like it; they drink out of it regularly.”

Ben considered the neglected body of water. “Well, forgot my trunks anyhow.”

49

A
round midnight Kris entered her Eastlake apartment, sorted her mail, checked her machine, then decided on something completely uncharacteristic—a hot bath. Generally a fan of showers, Kris regarded baths as time wasters but tonight she felt like pampering herself.

A floor-to-ceiling window in her bathroom looked out over Lake Union and the surrounding city. Because there were few neighbors who could see inside, she usually kept the curtains open. She lit a cigarette and started the water. Kris was aware of a guy a block below who liked to watch her in the bathroom. Sometimes she let him. Her pet name for him was Peeping Bob. She'd seen him in his window a few times, with and without binoculars, and even passed him in the small local grocery down on Fairview. She knew he knew who she was, but she was pretty sure he had no clue she was on to his peeping.

She poured a glass of wine and came back into the bathroom. She noticed Peeping Bob's light had gone off, a sign he was on duty. Suddenly the success of the day made her feel powerful, and since discovering that power was her new turn-on, she decided to give him a show.

Slowly undoing her blouse, she let it hang open, then moved out of the window to build his tension. A moment later she reappeared and tossed her blouse to the floor. Next she teasingly fiddled with her bra, then unsnapped and dropped it. Cupping her bare breasts, she wanted to make sure he was painfully aroused. Then she took a leisurely sip of her chardonnay.

She unzipped her skirt and let it slide off, kicking it into her bedroom. She loathed panty hose: she unsnapped her stockings from the garter belt and dropped them into the hamper. Now that she was wearing only panties, it was time to cut Peeping Bob off, since it was her policy to never let him see her completely nude. But as she reached for the curtains, she suddenly felt the wine flowing over the pleasure center in her brain. Her day had gone unbelievably well, thanks to those two probably dead codgers out near Monroe.

The stock in Kris Walker, Inc., had shot through the ceiling after Doug Gautier's banishment and the impossibly lucky validation of her series on the murders. Until Mac's admission on tape, pressure had been building on the station to explain why they were calling the disappearances murders. Everyone from local radio pundits to national news organizations were asking the big question: what does Channel 7 know that nobody else does? She gave Lyle credit for running interference for her, even with the conglomerate's head office in Provo. And now everyone from
Newsweek
and the
Wall Street Journal
to
People
was calling her for interviews. She checked out the media blogs, where it seemed her dazzling looks were a far bigger priority to the public than whether she was just winging her coverage. And closer to home, she was glowing after the word quickly got around the station that Sales Manager Howard March had proclaimed to his staff that Kris was “becoming a one-woman industry with her coverage of the missing people.” Kris suddenly felt invincible.

Standing squarely in the window, she dropped her panties and kicked them away. As she sipped her wine, she performed a slow, naked pirouette for her admirer.
Enjoy looking, Peeping Bob, because you can never touch it.
She leisurely combed her hair for a few minutes, then decided Peeping Bob had seen more than he could handle. She fired up another cigarette and slipped from her stage into hot water.

It had been three hours since he looked at the clock. It was now three a.m. and Mac shut the 1961 book
Abominable Snowman: Legend Come to Life,
authored by the learned British zoologist Ivan T. Sanderson. He didn't have to get up early, but he closed the book because a subconscious notion had elbowed its way into his frontal lobe and was now screaming at him. Dr. Wade Frazier was going to help him pull everything out of the fire. Despite the man's claimed reluctance, too much had happened for him not to break his silence. Mac envisioned himself, armed with the casting, Dr. Frazier at his side, holding a news conference that would set the media on its ear. He proudly mulled over this new idea and resolved to act first thing in the morning. Despite his career's falling apart in the previous twenty-four hours, he had fresh hope, a new plan. Reassured, he climbed into bed and slept like a baby.

50

T
he morning shift at Boeing's Everett plant started bright and early, and once again Russ Tardif didn't show. Russ's supervisor, Milt Nelms, came unglued.
Damn near a week now and the man's a no-show.
Milt was pissed for several reasons, not the least of which were the twenty calls he'd made to Russ's house and the fact that, despite Russ's being ridiculously late, firing him would be problematic because of the union.

After questioning all of Russ's coworkers on his whereabouts, Milt came up empty. He asked that pack of lazy shits if one of them would drive over to Russ's place and check on him. No one lived out that far—and none volunteered—so Milt decided he'd have to do it himself. That morning was going to be spent twiddling thumbs anyway while engineering came up with new specs on the latch tolerances for some cargo door hydraulic assemblies they'd just completed—and now apparently had to remachine—so Milt figured he had at least four hours to kill. He grabbed his underling and drinking buddy, Brian Windham, and they jumped into Milt's F-150 and headed for points east, namely the home of Russ Tardif.

It took almost an hour for Milt and Brian to arrive at Russ's residence. They missed his driveway twice before spotting the anonymous little rutted dirt road with the foot-high grass growing down the middle. They rolled up in front of Russ's home, hoping not to see Russ's vehicle, an old Aerostar. The fading blue van told them Russ was home, and Milt felt a welling uneasiness that the situation was about to get complicated, if not ugly.

Without a word they got out and listened. They had no idea whether Russ had gone AWOL and for some crazy reason might come out guns blazing—employers never knew these days—or maybe he was dead drunk, or just dead. The only loud thing about the old farmhouse was the peeling green paint. Far below came the faint rushing sound of moving water. The thick forest that approached within fifty feet of the house was dead still.

Milt rang the doorbell and knocked for a minute or so, then walked around the house, peering inside. He saw no sign of Russ.

“You see anything?” he called to Brian.

“Nothin,'” Brian yelled back from the other side of the house.

Sizing up the sloping backyard and its knee-high grass, Milt saw a semblance of a trail leading down to the creek.

“Hey, didn't Russ say he had a workshop or something?” he yelled.

The creek's white noise masked Milt's question from Brian's side of the house.

Milt started down the trail.

Brian rounded the house, following. “I don't think he's around here,” he said, warily measuring the steep, grassy grade. While he enjoyed the time away from work on the clock, Brian hadn't planned on engaging in any real detective work.

About twenty yards from the end of the trail they both saw the same thing and stopped.

Brian whispered,“Oh shit.”

Milt continued toward the burned wreckage. It was hard to tell if Russ had met his demise here but it sure looked like it. They circled the pile of blackened lumber, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything that either confirmed or denied their awful suspicions. Brian picked up some lumber but Milt stopped him.

“Leave it. If he's in there, he's dead. The fire department'll need it in one piece to figure what happened.”

Brian dropped the wood. That's why Milt was the boss, always thinking.

Mac hesitated, phone in hand, suddenly feeling that his great revelation at three that morning didn't seem as brilliant in the light of day. He dialed anyway.

A moment later came the crisp voice at the other end,“Wade Frazier.”

“Dr. Frazier, Mac Schneider.”

“Detective Schneider, what are you doing?” the professor asked with urgency. “I've heard no mention of your discovery.”

“That's why I'm calling. More people are missing and I think it's to blame.”

“Indeed, and you are calling to enlist me in lending scientific credence to your assertions.”

“In a nutshell. Will you?”

“No, and I will tell you why I cannot. Unless things have changed, you have a casting and no other evidence. I have been watching the newscasts and reading the accounts, yet no one else seems to be aware of what you and I suspect. Unfortunately, to support your rather provocative theory, you do not have the incontrovertible proof that you need to gain acceptance. And as a yardstick of that proof, I submit to you the case of Roger Patterson, who shot actual footage of one: forty years later people still debate whether it's a man in a suit. Furthermore, to engage in a bit of psychoanalysis, I can also divine that your silence thus far indicates a diminution of absolute certainty on your part. Fearing for your career, Detective?”

Mac didn't need to get into how his career was probably already over. He didn't want Frazier to think only one of them had something to lose.

Frazier took Mac's silence as a yes. “So, Detective, you can empathize with my position. I can say this, however: should you obtain the corpse, or a living specimen, I will be delighted to catalogue it and assist in presenting it to the scientific community and, I presume, the world. Other than that, I am sorry.”

“Any suggestions?” asked Mac.

“Look for it. Like us, they are probably creatures of habit. Divine a pattern to his actions and comb that area. But I advise you to do so in the possession of some considerable weaponry. This one seems to be rather ill-tempered.”

“What, you don't want a living specimen?” Mac added with a wry smile.

“I would love it, but I don't think it's at all feasible. I suspect a being such as this can be contained in only one way and that does not involve a net. Good luck, Detective Schneider.”

Mac set the phone down and looked at it for a moment, lost in thought. Then he picked it back up and punched in some numbers.

“Suzy, hi, it's Mac.”

“What happened?” she said, lowering her voice. “You're a total pariah around here.”

“I know. It's a long story.”

“You'll have to tell me when we can talk.”

“I will. I need a favor.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Anything out of the ordinary, disappearances, whatever, copy the files and send them over here.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Just be careful. You're aiding and abetting the enemy.”

She chuckled sadly. “I will, and you take care of yourself.”

“I will. Thanks a million, you're the best, Suze.”

Mac spent the rest of the morning puttering around his condo, cleaning and straightening. The busywork required no thought and allowed his mind a clearer path toward finding options. Then another idea hit him. It was certainly a much further stretch than calling Frazier. He retrieved a folder from his office and skimmed the contents.

The Channel 7 receptionist glanced up to see a rangy, unshaven man of around thirty, clad in torn jeans, a very faded Iron Maiden T-shirt, and a tattered army fatigue jacket. She instantly wondered which of the local messenger companies had let their standards slip.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I gotta talk to Kris Walker, the reporter,” said J. D. Watts. Then he immediately recognized the need to qualify himself, based on the judging stare he was getting. “I know something about the killings she's been doin' the TV stories on,” he added awkwardly. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how they sounded. “I mean I don't know the killer or nothin', but I think I got an idea 'bout who's doin' it.” Chronic marijuana intake and a lack of practice in formal communication had already crippled his approach.

“Miss Walker is not in. Would you like to leave a message?”

It was nine a.m. and it hadn't occurred to J. D. that Kris might not be at work.

“Shit. Oh, yeah, well…” His mind raced to come up with the words that would intrigue this high-powered reporter. He failed. “I'll come back.”

He walked away, then turned and asked,“When'll she be comin' in?”

The receptionist consulted a schedule. “Probably around one.”

J. D. nodded and walked out. The receptionist reached for a notepad and started to write Kris a note about the encounter with the stoner kook but thought better of it. Had it been any other reporter, she would have given the warning, but Kris's reputation was getting around and the receptionist didn't want to get her attention, even by trying to do her a favor.

BOOK: The Shadowkiller
3.86Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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