The Shadowkiller (31 page)

Mac appealed to Ben. “With all due respect, Ben, you plan on hiking all over the Cascades looking for this thing? You're damn near eighty. And you're an actor, not a tracker. And Ty, I know you've put together searches, but it really isn't what you do. It's what I do.”

Ty was exasperated by Mac's jarring about-face. He wasn't about to leave this task to someone else. He realized they were at an impasse. He also knew that if Mac had the department behind him, he would not have come unofficially. There was something that Mac was not telling him, but it didn't matter. Ty and Ben needed this man because he was a cop, he had the casting, he may have encountered the thing, and most important, he believed. But Ty had to do this on his own terms and could not have anyone, not Mac Schneider, not the press or public opinion or, truth be told, even his own wife, stop him. Ty held out his hand to Mac. “Good luck.”

Mac had been hoping his gambit would appeal to their logic, but it was apparent that Ty was very emotional about this and was going to proceed on his own terms. Mac reluctantly shook Ty's hand, knowing that it marked the beginning of their rivalry.

Mac drove away wishing things had gone better. He knew he had not been clearheaded lately and ticked off his lapses in judgment. They were mounting. He had very few chances left to exonerate himself. Mac desperately wanted this animal or ape or whatever it was to be real. And if it was, he would be the guy to take it down.

O
ver the last two days Kris had been very busy. On top of calls from other media to interview her, she had begun receiving phone messages from a guy who claimed to know “what was doing the killings,” but he wouldn't leave his phone number. Finally the receptionist copped to an actual encounter with a scruffy man who came in wanting to talk to Kris in person. After hearing a description, Kris dismissed him as one of those crackpots who was just trying to meet her. And there were lots of those now that her face was suddenly popping up everywhere. The media cockroaches had come out of the woodwork because Kris was now the It Girl, having turned the disappearances into high visibility for herself and her station. Her reports had evolved from hard news to stellar showmanship and thus drew audiences like sharks to chum. And because she'd been the first with the story, the frightened public turned to her for the latest on the crazed murderer.

Kris noticed Gwen, her intern, walking nearby and called her over. “What have you gotten on that Greenwood guy?”

Gwen nervously did a mental inventory. “I've got like a pretty good-sized file. LexisNexis, lots of articles, property records, credit stuff…He's like really rich, uh, lots of stuff.”

“Does he look guilty?”

Gwen was perplexed. “Guilty of what?”

Kris dismissed her. “Nothing. Bring me the file.”

Once again Kris was being forced to spin gold from dross because from the beginning she lacked one essential element to her tale: no bodies or other physical evidence. But unbeknownst to her, that was about to change.

A Boy Scout troop engaged in a search organized by a determined Karen Roberts had, only hours before, found something. It wasn't much, a piece of yellow fabric, but it featured one thing valuable to both Kris and the Snohomish County Sheriff at the moment: blood. The fabric, from the Gore-Tex shell of a jacket like the one Mitch Roberts wore, had been lying next to a creek and was picked up by an eleven-year-old Scout. The alert kid gave it to his troop leader and within a few hours Carillo had personally carried it to the crime lab for a battery of tests. Despite the fact it had probably been in or around the creek now for three weeks, a large-enough clot of blood had congealed and clung to the surface to allow for a typing.

While working on the blood typing, Suzy Chang gave Carillo a quick lesson in Gore-Tex.

“Normally, Gore-Tex is water resistant because it's tight enough to keep out water drops, but its breathable structure is loose enough to allow water molecules to pass through its barrier, like sweat. Blood cells, on the other hand, are small enough to cling to the microscopic matrix.”

Carillo craned his neck to look at the fabric. “It looks…I dunno, it looks…”

Suzy read his confusion. “No stitches. There aren't any stitches. Since they don't want to penetrate the fabric with a needle, otherwise it wouldn't be waterproof
and
breathable, Gore-Tex is assembled with superglue, not traditional needle and thread.”

Carillo arched a brow. “No shit. You learn something every day.”

“Another thing,” Suzy added, “this fabric is very tough, and since it's also superglued, the force necessary to separate this piece from the whole must have been significant.”

A few minutes later Suzy prepared some of the dried blood and made a solution, which she applied to a test card. After a moment she looked up at Carillo. “It's type B positive.”

Carillo was grim. “Mitch Roberts is B positive. Okay, at least now we can give the bloodsuckers in the media something. Since they think we're hiding everything else,” he added with venom.

“Do you really think Mac would hurt the department like that?” Suzy asked.

“He already did.” Carillo turned and left.

Among Suzy's other forensic tests, a DNA screen was also pending, but the matching blood type tended to bolster the theory of foul play. When the word went out, Karen Roberts was shattered, but there was certainly exultation in the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department. Her bad news was their good news.

Ty watched Kris's report that evening and called Ben at the hotel.

“You see the news? They found a piece of the lawyer's jacket.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “You put it on the map?”

“Just put a pin in. We need to get out, start looking.”

“Yeah, it's time. I tried to bring him up again but just can't do it. We'll have to use the maps. That and a good guess.”

“I've sort of triangulated a starting point, based on the other incidents,” Ty offered.

“That's where we'll start,” said Ben. He paused for a beat, then asked,“Neither of us have mentioned this, but do we have a gun to take along?”

Ty was momentarily taken aback, for in all the conversations he and Ben had had, they had never actually discussed killing it. Or for that matter, how they might stop it.

“I've got a tranquilizer rifle. I had it from when I looked the last time.”

Ben visualized their quarry. “Okay, but how 'bout a real gun? A big one.”

There was a long pause on Ty's end of the phone as he thought of his stupendous rifle and its solitary round. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe?” repeated Ben.

“Okay, yeah, I have something. It's too big to carry, though.”

“Then I hope you can put him to sleep.”

Ty changed the subject. “I've also got a choice of cameras. I've got a mini DV for motion, and for stills I've got this little point-and-shoot, either that or we could use this pretty high-end digital—”

“Bring the little one and put it in your pocket.”

Ben's abrupt answer stopped Ty. “Okay…”

“We might just see him at a distance and get a nice pretty snapshot. But if we get worried 'bout snappin' his picture—and let's say he's fifty feet away—well, I'd suggest shootin' him with somethin' a little more potent than megapixels, or whatever you call 'em.”

Ty got Ben's point. “The little one. In my pocket.”

The men agreed to meet the next day and begin their actual search. After they hung up, Ben restlessly fumbled through some newspapers and clicked on the TV to find some news. He was tired but feared sleep. He'd had some dreams the past few nights that were quite disturbing. He saw a chase through a forest, only he wasn't the pursued, it was two others. He saw it all with disturbing clarity: the two were running and one was hurt, limping, and behind them, in the shadows, came their huge pursuer. Then the thing was upon them and—

Ben would wake up. He had the dream twice and both times he awoke at that moment. He wanted to know the outcome but wasn't completely sure if this dream represented prescience or just his overactive imagination. He prayed it was the latter.

Desperately needing to rest, Ben suddenly didn't feel safe alone in his hotel room, so he slipped on his shoes and wandered down to the lobby. Off to one corner, a big potted fern offered cover, and behind it, an overstuffed chair beckoned. Snuggling himself in, out of view of the quiet late-night lobby traffic, he shut his eyes. There was something about being in a public place that made him feel it wouldn't come here and get him. He hoped. He also hoped the latest dream wouldn't come back, for if it did, it would seem to confirm itself, as if future reality could be cultivated like growing a plant. Ben cleared his mind and immediately fell asleep.

His back against a two-hundred-foot-tall cedar, he closed his eyes to sleep. He was hungry, but more so, he was tired. The old small two-legs he had killed in the dark time had provided a meal, but they were lean and bony. He would rest now, then go down to the flat land and look for food.

He had discovered that the small two-legs often left their food outside their wood caves. He did not know why, but if its smell attracted him, he would eat it. Their food was strange and had many more tastes than he was used to. Some he liked, some he did not. Often the things the small two-legs left the food in made noise when he looked inside, and sometimes the small two-legs would come out to investigate. He would hide nearby in the shadows because he did not want them to see him. One small twoleg came right at him and he was going to take it, but then its mate cried out to it and it went back in its wood cave. He did not understand why they left their food outside their wood caves.

D
awn found sullen clouds scudding across the horizon. The temperature actually dropped as the sun came up, and weather forecasters all over Puget Sound divined a coming storm. They just disagreed on when it would happen. Some said two days, others said three to four, with the latter estimates putting it on the doorstep of Christmas Eve. While many forecasters saw a simple rainstorm on the way, some predicted that rare thunderstorm in December.

Ty and Ben had spent three days in the woods, hiking and searching but to no avail. Having already combed the forest area below where the mountain biker disappeared, they returned to try it again. Gazing up at the sweeping clear-cut slope, an indecipherable tromp l'oeil of stumps, tortured tree wreckage, and plowed ground, the men understood that even Ben's competent tracking abilities would be taxed.

Two hours later, after trudging most of it uphill, Ben plopped onto a four-foot-wide stump and took in the ragged hillside.

“He hides his tracks,” he explained. “They all do. They learn that young.”

“How do you know that?” asked Ty.

“My grandfather told me. Makes sense. Most inhabitants of the forest cover their tracks unconsciously. This one, all Oh-Mah, they do it out of habit. Tracks, stool, their shelters—all covered. They're smart.”

“What about the broken trees?” Ty wondered.

“That's different,” Ben said, thinking for a moment. “For instance, you got a mailbox with your name on it, right? But when you travel, you don't leave your wallet lyin' around or your car door open. Same idea. You cover your tracks, keep it quiet, but let others know where your territory is. We're all territorial. Us, him.”

“My mailbox,” Ty said wryly,“doesn't have my name on it.”

“There you go,” said Ben with a smile,“you're even more secretive than he is.” He pointed at the top of the hill, far above them. “He may be up there. They like hilltops. They can be defended and Oh-Mah can drop down to hunt too.”

Looking for a way up, Ty pointed to a dirt scar traversing the face of the hill from the top.

“That's gotta be the trail. Probably the one the mountain biker was going to come down. We'll need to go up there.”

Ben sized it up. “Darn near vertical. How we gettin' up there?”

Ty shrugged. “Hike.”

Ben shook his head, grinned. “I'm 'bout thirty years past that one. But I'll watch you.”

Ben motioned toward the binoculars around Ty's neck. “Check out the top. That fella Mac said he thought he saw broken trees up there.”

Ty scrutinized the area and saw some twisted trees but couldn't tell if they were wind-damaged.

“I don't know, nothing conclusive. What do you think?” he said, handing the glasses to Ben, who focused on the mountain.

“Dunno,” said Ben. “Maybe. My old eyes ain't what they used to be.”

Ty pulled out a map. “I got an idea. Since we came up here last time, I did some checking and there seems to be a way around this slope, to the top, but it's from the back. It's a serious trek but it's not straight up.”

“Where does it start?” Ben asked.

Ty gauged the map. “Seven, maybe eight miles down the road, then up the trail. Trail forks, then take the left side.” Ty looked at Ben and it hit him that his companion was pushing eighty years old. Ty was angry with himself for being so absorbed with their hunt that he hadn't stopped to consider Ben's lack of endurance. “Tomorrow. We've done enough for today. We'll go back to my place, have something to eat, and plan tomorrow.”

Ben was too tired to argue but didn't want to hold up the show. “You sure?”

Ty nodded, shouldered his tranquilizer rifle, and headed out. “I make some pretty scary sausage gumbo. Got some in the fridge. Pour it over a little steamed rice? Whaddya say?”

Ben smiled as he watched his young partner move off. He knew Ty had cut things short on his account. “I'm in. Sounds good. That southern soul food?”

Ty laughed. “You people got, what, pemmican? I'm from Missssippi. Our tribal food is crawdads, gumbo, and red beans and rice.”

Ben mused,“Pemmican. Hmmm. Never had it.”

Ronnie sat in her office, gazing out at the line dividing the green and gray of terrain and sky. Depressed, she yearned for bright colors in her life again. The muted green seemed like just another shade of gray. The world was varying shades of gray. She kicked off her shoes and massaged her feet. She had been both wounded and worried by Ty's admission he had left his job.

The previous day, Ronnie had arrived home early and taken it upon herself to do a little recon in Ty's office. It made her physically ill to snoop in her husband's business, but she told herself it was for the good of the family. The maps and pins told her he and Ben were probably somewhere out there, looking for it. Then she found the Holland & Holland gun case and her lips tightened. Ty might have been surprised at her reaction at that moment: it was relatively impassive. She hefted the case out of the closet and set it on the floor. Ty did not know she knew the combination. Ronnie had an amazing head for numbers, and when she'd first seen the invoice, the lock code was on the slip. She remembered it now, three years later. She spun the dials and snapped the hasps. She stared at her nemesis and shook her head. “You ridiculously expensive bastard. What a waste of money you were.”

Ronnie had been raised by a family of gun owners, so she understood why people chose to have guns and was even familiar with their use. A pretty decent shot when she was around twelve, she hadn't shot a gun in more than twenty-five years. Her issues with Ty's massive gun transcended the traditional debates on gun ownership. She picked up the single, huge cartridge and examined it. For a moment she considered throwing it away, or at least hiding it, but thought better of it. Even though disposing of that cartridge would emasculate the large rifle, it would really accomplish nothing but making her look petty. That Ty had brought the gun back in the house told her he was over the edge again. That he had hidden it from plain sight told her he was still within her reach. She shut the case, spun the three cylinders, and put it back in its place. Then she saw the box filled with high-tech gear, including the infrared night vision goggles, and cringed at what those must have cost.

As she stared out the window, remembering, her secretary's voice over the intercom shattered her reverie to tell her a tabloid reporter had tried to get past her. He wanted to ask Ronnie her opinion on the people who were disappearing in the mountains, as well as get her comments on “her husband's involvement.” With that, Ronnie felt the circus was in full swing again. If the media were calling, it was only a matter of time before they invaded the sanctity of her home.

She contemplated a separation to jar Ty back to his senses, but that was a last resort, a sort of moral jumping-off point before divorce. And divorcing Ty was out of the question because he was a great man and a wonderful, loving husband. He was just sick. You don't divorce someone if he's sick. Then she thought
unless they can get help and refuse it.
So she was back to square one. Then she pondered the concept of tough love and wondered if that might be exactly what Ty needed. Ty was pretty stubborn until something just this side of catastrophic persuaded him to change course. Ronnie needed to get his attention back. She sighed, feeling tired and a little lost.

Ty saw the unfamiliar Chrysler Sebring in the parking plaza while he waited for the garage door to open. Backing the big red Suburban into its space, he thought it might belong to one of the many people who performed services on his property. Ben climbed out and exited the garage while Ty moved some of the kids' toys lying on the garage floor.

Ben offered to make another attempt at “sending out his inner eye.” Ty found the notion fanciful but would indulge him because, based upon his own experience, he felt pretty much anything was possible.

“Ty, you've got company,” Ben yelled from outside the garage.

Ty exited the structure to find a woman walking toward him. She passed Ben and nodded greetings to him.

“Tyler Greenwood?” she asked.

Ty nodded, feeling the presence of a reporter. “I'm Ty Greenwood.”

Though Tyler was his given name, he preferred the less formal version. Usually only his mother called him Tyler.

“I'm Judy Elder of
The Rumor.
I just wanted some comments for my magazine.”

She held out her hand but Ty warily stood back. He hated
The Rumor.
They had helped to crucify him once before.

“Sorry, but I have no comment.” He headed toward the house.

“Isn't that Chief Ben Eagleclaw, the actor?” asked the reporter. “What's his involvement in this situation?”

Ty kept walking and the woman followed.

“Did you know any of the victims?” she persisted. “Are you looking for Bigfoot or is that just a smokescreen? Do you know who the serial killer is? Are you involved in the disappearances? The sheriff's department thinks you're involved. What did they find when they searched your house?”

“How did you know that? That they searched my house?”

“I have the contents of a confidential police file saying so.”

Ty stopped. “Bullshit.”

The reporter pulled out several sheets of paper. Ty grabbed them and examined their contents.

“We also know about your arrest at the scene of the truck incident, as well as information about the Boeing worker who disappeared from his workshop, and also details about the old couple who disappeared so mysteriously.”

Ty quickly handed the papers back and angrily stormed toward his front door.

“You can have them,” said the reporter. “They're copies. Why is Chief Eagleclaw here?”

Ty entered the house and closed the door. He went to his office, picked up the phone, and called the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department. After chewing out the undersheriff, Ty told him, suspect or not, they had better quit releasing his private information to the media or he would sue them.

A few moments after his irate phone call, Ty left Ben to work out the next search area and went to the front of the house.

Why did the sheriff release that file?

Ty couldn't believe they'd done that. It was totally incompetent. He looked out the living room window and saw the reporter still in her car, chattering on the phone. He smelled trouble. If she had that report, then others did too. He feared her publication would run an article on them now, tying him and Ben in some grotesque way to the killings. Right now he was worried more about Ben than himself. Ty gritted his teeth, anticipating the firestorm that awaited them.
Here it comes, Part II of
The Crucifixion of Ty Greenwood,
costarring Chief Ben Eagleclaw as Ben Campbell, the friend who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.
It was only several days to Christmas, so he hoped they'd leave them alone at least that long.

Undersheriff Tom Rice hesitated before phoning his boss, who he knew was in Seattle for a political luncheon at the Westin Hotel.

Sheriff Rick Barkley answered his cell phone. “What?”

“There's a leak in the department. That fella Greenwood, who Carillo's been looking at? He just called and chewed my ass, said some tabloid showed him some of our internal documents, the case file I guess.”

Sheriff Rick Barkley cast a glance around his table and realized he couldn't talk. He got up and walked to the edge of the Grand Ballroom. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You saw them?”

“No, but I think I believe him.”

Barkley made sure no one, not even the waiters or busboys, was within voice range. “How did they get the fucking case file? Was there anything about those goddamn footprints?”

“I don't know. I doubt it. Unless Mac got pissed and let the cat out of the bag…”

Barkley came to Mac's defense. “He wouldn't, not Mac. I reamed him good but he's still a team player. I just don't know what he was doing with that reporter…” Barkley trailed off briefly, then reeled it back. “The governor just asked me what was going on. I said we're working the case and he told me his office is getting lots of scared calls. I don't want the media turning this into a big old panic fest. Get Carillo somebody to replace Mac along with whoever and whatever else he wants. Let's hurry up and find this psycho before he does it again or we're gonna be clearin' room for an FBI command center. And find out who leaked that file and rip his nuts off.”