The Shadowkiller (33 page)

F
rom inside their shelter, the four rottweilers heard a sound far off in the woods. To a human ear it was at an impossible distance, but to the dogs the sound was crystal clear. With the snap of a twig, Queenie, the alpha dog, sprang to her feet and began a chorus of barking.

Their master, Carlin Arial, a very successful fifty-four-year-old artist, was crafting an oil painting in his studio a hundred feet behind his sprawling home. As much as he loved his dogs, they drove him crazy every time a squirrel farted. He looked at his canvas and decided he had too much of a mauve thing going and reached to his palette for a blob of ivory.

As Queenie continued to lead the cry with her hacking bark, she suddenly felt a shadow over her. All animals have an instinctive fear of being spirited away from above that has been genetically passed down from prehistoric times when huge, soaring raptors had the power to carry off even relatively large animals. But Queenie didn't see a shadow, she felt it. And she fell quiet. Her cohorts followed suit, also feeling the dark presence.

The dogs sensed that whatever was coming their way was neither deer nor human. Its fearsome size became apparent from the delicate vibration in their rubbery foot pads, and that's what actually shut them up. Their natural reverence for unequivocal superiority, a reverence with which Mother Nature imbues all animals, was a device for self-preservation. The dogs heard and felt it, then humbled themselves, huddling together, heads bowed. In the distance they could see their master through the studio windows but there was nothing they could do for him.

Carlin looked up when the barking abruptly ended, but the large windows that opened into empty darkness revealed nothing. Setting down his brush, he went to the door. Just as he was about to open it, his wife, Joyce, buzzed on the intercom.

“Honey, how late do you plan on working?” she asked.

He crossed to the makeshift system he had installed to communicate with the main house.

“I'll be a while,” he replied. “Go ahead and go to bed. I'll be in later.”

“Okay,” she said, then added, “Are the dogs all right? They were barking.”

“They're always barking. I'll check. 'Night.”

Carlin Arial walked back to the carved mahogany door, and just as he was about to open it, he felt a strange premonition. He ignored the feeling and pulled the door open. The massive shock caused such a toxic rush of stress-induced catecholamines that his heart literally stopped.

As he climbed into the mountains with the limp cargo under his arm, he thought of the dogs. He felt the small two-legs used dogs to warn them. They relied on the dogs but twice now dogs had failed to save their small two-leg masters from him. This showed him that all animals saved their own lives first.

In the hills above the last wood cave, he stopped to eat. The small two-leg from the wood cave with the many warm ice openings was dead. It had died without his having to even touch it. He had never seen an animal simply die. As he ate, he thought of the old one his mind had seen at the creek. He had felt the old one that time and looked around, thinking he was there, daring to stand in his shadow. But he was not there.

He knew the old one was searching for him, sending out his mind voice to seek his. When he felt him, he did not allow his mind voice to answer. He had felt the others too, but they did not have the clear mind voice like the old one.

While he ate, he thought of how he had defied the charging hardshell, knowing its small two-leg master's fear caused it to fall from the black trail. He had almost reached into the hardshell to pull out the small twoleg, but felt something was wrong with it, some sort of slowing or disturbance of its thoughts. As he walked away, the hardshell had fled in fear.

His forays into the flat lands of the small two-legs were increasing. He had no fear of them but was cautious not to go among too many. He knew they feared him and possessed the thunder. He respected the thunder for it might hurt him.

Saving what was left of the small two-leg for later, he buried the bones and continued upward.

At four fifteen that morning the police got a call from a woman in the far northeast corner of the City of Snohomish frantically wailing to the operator that her husband had been in his artist's studio and was now missing. The operator asked if there were any signs of foul play. The hysterical woman said no, but it just wasn't like her husband to disappear in the middle of the night.

The police operator resisted for nearly ten minutes, not wanting to waste a patrol car on a husband who probably just went for an early morning nature walk, but ultimately she relented, based entirely upon the emotional outpouring from the wife. She agreed to send a car to investigate but added, “Should he reappear before the unit gets there, ma'am, call us immediately.”

Joyce Arial turned on all the lights around their large home, giving it the appearance of a grand opening, then wandered from window to window, looking into the forest. Her husband wasn't some kooky eccentric. He was a well-known and respected artist and she knew he was in trouble.

Nearly two hours later two City of Snohomish police officers arrived and found no evidence of foul play, other than the open door to the studio. They took down the info, comforted the wife, and left.

In the patrol car one of the cops turned to the other. “Think this has anything to do with those other disappearances?”

“I doubt it,” the other cop said. “This guy took a hike, looks to me.

She said the dogs quit barking before she last talked to him. If there was an intruder, the dogs woulda went nuts.”

“Yeah, you're right,” said the cop, closing his notepad.

If the two officers didn't think much of the Carlin Arial disappearance, the Snohomish Sheriff's Department certainly did. By nine a.m. Carillo, three deputies, and two forensic techs were on scene, dusting for prints, taking pictures, and performing a full investigation, presuming that this was another possible homicide.

Since the heat had been turned up a few days before by Rice and Barkley, Carillo had put a tail on Ty Greenwood. So far he was spending a lot of time in the mountains in the company of a tall, old Indian. When Carillo found out it was Chief Ben Eagleclaw, the movie actor, he was puzzled. The chief had always been a favorite of Carillo's and now he was running around with the guy who probably had something to do with these crimes. Carillo's current theory was that Greenwood was paying someone to kill people and leave the fake tracks. The problem was they had really only found four or five distinct tracks and at only two of the scenes. That was it. Carillo tried to imagine why Greenwood wouldn't leave clearer tracks when he or his henchman struck. It just didn't make sense.

Carillo didn't have all the answers about Ty Greenwood but he was working on them. Even though his head told him Greenwood might not be the one, Carillo's emotions told him he was. Since gut feelings had worked for Mac Schneider so many times, Carillo decided this time he was going to follow his own. If that traitor Schneider could make instincts work, so could Karl Carillo. In a way he felt liberated. He was now in charge of this case and knew that a bust could bump him a lot closer to a promotion. But he also understood there was a clock ticking, and if more people turned up missing, he'd lose control of the case. Carillo needed to come up with the best suspect as soon as possible and find a way to pin the connection. So far Tyler Greenwood was it.

T
hree days before Christmas Eve, Ronnie sat in a meeting to discuss the big rollout of a new version of her company's wildly successful office software suite scheduled for the day after New Year's. She heard none of the discourse. Her mind was on her own high-risk venture, one designed to save her family. It was during that meeting that she settled on her plan. Now she just needed to summon the courage to follow through on it.

High in the mountains, just before noon, Ty and Ben pulled off the road in Ty's Suburban. The two men got out and went to the back to get their gear. Neither noticed the sedan pull slowly past, then park fifteen yards ahead of them. Ty opened the side-by-side rear doors and handed Ben the lighter of the two packs, then opened the case containing the tranquilizer rifle.

“You ever shot that thing?” Ben asked.

“No. But they guaranteed it would work,” answered Ty.

“I haven't shot this either, but it's guaranteed to get someone's attention.”

Ty and Ben turned to see Mac standing nearby, his sizable pistol in hand.

Ben was not surprised to see Mac. “I seen one o' them on a movie once. Big gun.”

Mac and Ty regarded each other for a moment. Ty wasn't convinced of the man's motives. “How did you find us?”

“I'm a detective. I've been following you guys since you left your house. You also had an unmarked tail but I think they must have gotten a code three because they broke off a few miles back. I hope you two are better in the woods than on the streets. Otherwise this thing'll be on us before we know it.”

“Us?” asked Ty.

Ben jumped in. “I'll take three against one any day. Plus he's got that big ol' gun.”

Mac looked to Ty and slowly held out his hand. “How 'bout it?”

Ty looked into Mac's eyes to find the truth. “You really want to work with us to find this thing? You ready for that?”

Mac nodded. “Yes.”

Ty lifted his arm and their hands clasped. “All right. Welcome aboard,” said Ty. “Now let's go find this motherfucker.”

An hour into their steep trek into the mountains, Ty and Mac could see it was exacting its toll on Ben. His breathing became more like gulps and his feet weren't as steady in overcoming obstacles on the trail. Ben was experiencing slight heart arrhythmia, so he spotted a log and sat.

“You okay?” Mac asked.

Ben nodded, wheezing to catch his breath. “Give me a minute. I'm fine.”

Ty noticed the color had washed from Ben's normally ruddy face, the opposite of what one would expect from hard exertion. He gave a concerned nod to the old man. “Let's go back.”

“I'm okay, really,” Ben objected. “Just need a sec. Then I'll be whippin' you young pups, no problem.”

Nor was Ben's pallor lost on Mac. “Ty's right. We can come back tomorrow. Or wait until right after Christmas.”

Mac studied his map. He had a feeling Skip the biker had come this way and he wanted to search the top but didn't think it was wise to push their fragile companion. “Yeah, we'll come back,” he said. “I'm not so sure this is the right trail anyway.”

Ben knew they were protecting him, but at that moment he just wanted to crawl into his bed in the hotel. He was now feeling the sixty-odd years of cigarettes more than ever before. Ben had often worried about his heart, but despite his smoking—which his doctor always got after him over—his doc told him he was in pretty good shape. When Ben was home he would try to get up into the nearby mountains of the coastal range for a hike. He could easily hike five or six miles but those trails weren't as steep as this one. He swallowed his pride and erred on the side of common sense.

“Okay, let's go back,” Ben agreed.

When her desk phone buzzed, Kris knew by the sound of the ring it was an internal call. She answered brusquely,“What?”

“Hi, it's Brenda at reception. It's the guy who says he has information on your story.”

Kris looked at her watch. It was 7:10 p.m. “That same guy?”

“Yeah,” answered Brenda.

“I'll be down in a minute.”

She normally would have blown off anyone who came by unannounced, but this man was persistent, having already called and dropped by a number of times. Maybe he really had something. But as she approached him in the lobby, she had doubts. He was unshaven and dressed in threadbare clothing. As Kris got closer, she spotted a tattoo on his wrist. She hated tattoos. Nevertheless, she extended her hand.

“Mr. Watts? Hi, Kris Walker.”

J. D. stood and his mouth dropped open. She was amazingly pretty in person. “Uh, I, uh…I wanted to, I mean I…”

Kris pointed to a glassed-in conference room at the edge of the lobby. “Let's go in there.”

He followed and she closed the door. “So,” she said, “what information do you have on the murders?”

“I, uh, I think I know who did it.”

Kris leaned against the corner of the long table and folded her arms expectantly. J. D. had hoped for more of a buildup, given the incredible nature of what he was about to tell her, but he'd take what he could get. He was just having a problem getting past how beautiful she was. He wasn't used to women who looked like that. She almost didn't look real. On top of her looks she was so healthy and well groomed, compared to most of the women he knew, who were pretty much heavy abusers of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and junk food. He figured someone this pretty must be nice and very smart. Though he hadn't smoked any dope since that morning, he just couldn't seem to get his brain in gear, so he just jumped in.

“Bigfoot did it,” he blurted.

Kris kept her eyes on his but said nothing. Her intent silence and lack of reaction prompted him to continue.

“Uh, I was up in the mountains with, uh, some other guys and, uh, this big fuckin', 'scuse me, I mean this big old thing jumped out and just grabbed 'em. I think it must be the one who's doin' all these murders.”

Kris narrowed her eyes and just stared at him, and J. D. for the life of him could not figure out what she was thinking. Sure, his story was pretty crazy, but unlike most stories J. D. had told in his life, this one was true.

“How big was he?” she finally asked.

“I swear to God he musta been, I dunno, ten, twelve feet or somethin'. He was bigger'n any bear I ever saw, by a long shot.”

Kris seemed to hang on every word. “Did he have really big feet?”

The question stopped J. D. for a second. “Uh, yeah, I'd guess they musta been huge too.”

“Wow. That's Bigfoot, all right.” Kris held up her finger for him to stay put and stepped toward the door. “This is big. I need to get a notepad and quickly alert some people about this. Would you wait a minute?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” said J. D. That was enough to relax him. He was thrilled she got it so fast. He'd been terrified she wouldn't take him seriously. He was so relieved, he even rifled through his jacket hoping he could find a roach to spark up, if only for one quick toke.

Kris stepped over to a magazine-covered reception table and picked up the house phone. Pausing for a moment to recall the number, she punched in the digits. She got Mac's voice mail.

“Real funny. Your little plan to get back at me just backfired. Let's see how you and your buddy like this, asshole.”

She hung up and walked to the receptionist. “Call the police,” she said calmly. “That guy just threatened to kill me. Make it fast. Before he leaves.”

As Brenda dialed 911, Kris pretended to look around for a notepad. She made eye contact with J. D. and nodded to indicate she would be right back. He smiled stupidly.

“Don't let him leave,” she warned Brenda.

Kris walked to the side of the lobby and used her keycard to enter the secure, employees-only area. Kris delighted in how she had so decisively turned the tables on Mac and his coconspirator. This Watts guy didn't look like he was an actual friend of Mac's, so Kris surmised Mac was extracting a favor from some miscreant for some sort of leniency. But it didn't matter now. J. D. Watts had made enough phone calls and visits to lay the groundwork for his looking like a stalker. No one would question Kris's version of the story, which she would soon tearfully relate to the police, about how this dangerous nut made a sexual advance and threatened her with a death most foul when she rejected him. It was perfect.