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Authors: Matthew Scott Hansen

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BOOK: The Shadowkiller
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9

R
onnie was at the office conferring with her Japanese clients when Ty arrived home and found their seventeen-year-old sitter Amy in the kitchen, watching the Three Stooges with Meredith. His daughter was laughing at the television, whereas Amy looked bored. Ty knew his little girl was going to have an interesting future, because any woman, six or sixty, who liked and understood the Stooges definitely marched to the beat of a different drummer. In her less serious days, Ronnie had professed a real love for the Knuckleheaded Triumvirate, and Ty had never told her that aside from her looks, brains, and good heart, her appreciation of the Stooges had gone a long way in convincing him to marry her.

“When did Mrs. Greenwood say she'd be back?” he asked Amy.

Amy started to answer Ty's question, “Uh, I think she said, like…”

“One,” Meredith filled in, without taking her eyes from the mayhem Moe was perpetrating on Larry and Curly. Ty went down the hall to his office, picked up the phone, and punched in some numbers.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Wylie?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Ty Greenwood. I'm very sorry about your husband. I have a few questions if you've got a moment.”

“Sure, uh, who are you with?”

Ty explained how he got the number from the newspaper, then lied that the Forest Service was interested in her husband's case. Lori Wylie seemed okay for several minutes, but then the questions seemed to veer off into a weird area.

“Did your husband ever mention any odd things while he was patrolling the woods?”

“Odd? Like what?”

“Strange things he might have seen. Things out of the ordinary. Sightings of anything, I don't know, bizarre?”

“You're with the Forest Service?”

“Yes.”

Lori Wylie was suddenly very uncomfortable. “Look, Mr. Greenwood, my husband is missing. My kids and I are worried sick. I don't have the faintest idea what happened to him and I'm praying he'll come home any minute. I'm doing my best to keep it together but the waiting is killing me. Now you call up and scare me by asking stuff like—”

“Mrs. Wylie, I assure you I'm only trying—”

“I have to go. Please don't call me anymore.”

She hung up. Ty immediately called back but the phone was busy.

At Burbank airport Ben decided he'd first go home to try to explain to Doris what had happened. He knew his journey was going to take him farther north, but he first needed to stop off and calm his rather fragile wife. He heard each of her questions in advance as if she were right there.

“What was the emergency?”

“Can you go back and finish the movie?”

“Will we lose any money, Benny?”

“You're going where?”

The young woman behind the Southwest Airlines ticket counter was trying to get his attention as he woolgathered about how his overwrought spouse would take this uncharacteristic AWOL episode.

“Sir? Sir?” she said. “Excuse me? What's your destination?”

Ben smiled apologetically. “Sorry, just gettin' old. SFO, then Eureka. Guess I'll needa connection.”

“Yes,” beamed the reservation agent, now that she had reeled Ben back. As she typed away she looked up.

“I'm a big fan. I've been watching you ever since I was a little kid.”

“Lately, that's what they all say,” he joked.

A few minutes later, as he settled his too-tall-for-
the-cramped-window-seat body, he looked out over the vast, flat expanse of concrete and contrasted it with where he knew he was headed. Then it hit him. Though the director had assured him they'd shoot around his scenes until he got back, the real Indian just gave the movie Indian a piece of news that shook him:

You're not coming back.

Between the hours of one and five that afternoon, Karen Roberts's mental state went from concerned to worried sick. Her husband Mitch was a creature of habit, and holding to deadlines was as natural for him as breathing.

By six p.m. the fabric of Karen's orderly world was in shreds.

After dialing 911 and being told she couldn't file a missing person's report until Mitch had been absent for twenty-four hours, Karen went bonkers. She screamed at the operator, then phoned half a dozen friends, including Mitch's boss, Seth Olinka. Seth calmed her down, then hung up and phoned a good friend of his, Seattle city councilman Dick Wright, who in turn called a friend of his, the mayor. Within minutes the entire Eastside, from Snoqualmie Pass to damn near the Canadian border, was crawling with alert patrol officers from ten jurisdictions and agencies, all under orders to find a green Cherokee somewhere out in that cold, misty rain.

At five after nine, high above Highway 2, the headlights of a Snohomish County Sheriff's cruiser flashed across a parked green Cherokee. The Ford Crown Victoria patrol car slid in next to it. Through his rain-smeared windshield, Deputy Sheriff Bill Alexander read the plate, then turned on his dome light to read the info he had scribbled down while driving to a fender bender a few hours earlier. It was a match. He still got a thrill whenever he radioed in. It reminded him of the shows he had watched as a kid.

“One david thirty-two, a reg.”

The dispatcher answered, “Go ahead.”

“Two-seven-five, victor, x-ray, victor.”

A moment later the dispatcher came back with her response. “That's the eleven-twenty-four. It's okay to impound.”

Bill answered, “Copy.”

A moment later, “One david thirty-two?”

“Go ahead.”

“Check that impound. We'll eleven-eighty-five. What's your ten-twenty?”

“Copy that. I'm six and a half miles north of the Dillard Road turnoff on Lone Mountain.”

“Copy.” A moment later, “One david thirty-two, be advised S & R is ten-thirty-nine and will be on scene in approximately twenty minutes. The nine-twenties are Mitchell Roberts and Jack Remsbecker. They may be in the vicinity and may be unable to respond. Use caution.”

“One david thirty-two, copy that. I'm going code six.”

“Copy.”

Bill put the mic back and reached onto the passenger side floor for his rain hat. Outside his safe little cocoon of light and warmth was wet, black isolation, and suddenly he didn't want to leave. It was an out-of-place feeling, especially for a guy who had grown up around these woods. But finding that Weyerhaeuser guy's truck a few days before, door open, engine dead, and keys in the “on” position, well, it was downright spooky. Twenty-five-year-old Deputy Bill had just watched an
X-Files
episode dealing with alien abductions, so finding that empty truck sent his mind racing.

He left the patrol car idling, shook off his anxiety, grabbed his Maglite, and opened the door. The mist kissed his face as he stepped out and closed the door. The patrol car's exhaust swirled around him as he swung the flashlight about the perimeter to get his bearings. He left the cruiser's dome light and headlights on, which gave him an idea of the immediate terrain.

Pointing his flashlight into the Cherokee, he saw a gym bag on the passenger side floor, a jacket, and a Barney doll in the back cargo area. Nothing suspicious. The vehicle was locked. Bill moved toward the trail.

“Hello? Hello?” he shouted.

No echo returned as the moisture-deadened air sucked up the sound. All he heard was the slight hiss of rain. Moving toward the trail, swinging the beam back and forth, he looked for something, anything.

“Hello? Mitchell Roberts?” he shouted again, this time vainly hoping a name might bring a result. “Jack Remsbecker?”

Slowly heading up the rocky slope, he didn't plan on going too far, given his peculiar uneasiness and the fact that search and rescue would be arriving pretty soon. Less than fifty yards later, his warning system, that unconscious mechanism that keeps you from walking out in front of a car or putting your hand on a hot burner, was going off full-bore in his head. Just as Bill reached his absolute turnaround line, where he was about to lose sight of his car, his flashlight glinted off something. Washing the light beam over his surroundings, he saw and heard nothing else, so he walked toward it. Six feet away he recognized it as a keyless car door opener with a few keys attached.

Deputy Bill looked before touching, searching for clues as to how it got there.

Thrown? Dropped? Dropped on the way out? Way back?

Reaching what few conclusions he could, he picked it up, wiped the flecks of mud away, and pocketed it. Who knows? It might not even belong to the Cherokee.

He swept the area with his flashlight, and a sizable reddish brown stain on the rocks stood out from the grays and browns. He crouched to examine it more closely. It appeared to be congealed blood, a liver-colored spatter about half the size of one's hand. It had been raining all day, so Bill knew that if this were actually blood the original amount had probably been much greater. As he stared at the dissipating gore, he felt a sensation wildly out of place on that black mountain trail in the middle of a chilly, light rain: sunshine. He could swear he felt it all the way through his uniform and his rain slicker.

He didn't stop to analyze it, he just turned tail and ran. As fast as he could.

It was nearly one hundred yards to the cruiser and he made it in record time, jumped in, slapped it into reverse, backspun his tires in the muddy gravel, and took off. He didn't care whether they asked him why he left. He'd make up an excuse if he had to. He'd come back when someone else was with him. Lots of someone elses.

But for now, all he knew was
Screw the hikers, I'm getting the hell outta here.

10

A
t the offices of the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department, Mac Schneider was just finishing off the main course of his dinner, a six-inch Subway turkey breast with Dijon dressing, when Karl Carillo leaned over their facing desks.

“Any chips left?” asked Carillo.

Mac had not yet touched his small bag of barbecue chips. He liked to save them for last.

“Go for it,” he waved.

Carillo grabbed the bag, tore it open, dropped most of the contents into his hand, and sat back down. Mac rationalized the loss of the chips as less time in the gym. At thirty-three, Carillo had eight years on him and could burn it off faster.

“You washinthehkstmmrrw?” Carillo asked through a mouth clogged with potato pulp.

“Again…in English?”

Carillo swallowed. “You watchin' the Hawks tomorrow?”

Mac knew Carillo was a rabid fan of the Seattle Seahawks. Though Mac had moved from L.A. three years earlier, he was still a Rams and Raiders fan, even though both teams were long gone from L.A.

“I hate football.”

Carillo eyes went wide in disbelief. Then he caught the slightest twinkle in Mac's eye and knew he'd been had. Mac and Carillo had only been partners six months.

Carillo took a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the desk. “Friendly wager. I'll take us, you take the Eagles.”

Mac looked out the window at the rain-slicked asphalt parking lot. “I think you got the idea of a ‘friendly wager' mixed up. Oh, yeah, and the Hawks are favored by seven. Let's not bet and say we did.”

Carillo snorted, grabbed his twenty, and sat down. “Pussy.”

Mac was used to Carillo's macho bluster. Although they both carried good-sized caseloads that they worked individually, they often worked as partners. Carillo was an ex-Marine who still sported a jar-head buzz cut. Though four inches shorter than Mac's six one, Carillo loved to pump iron in the gym and spent a lot more time on the firing range. Bottom line, Carillo was just more typical of the man drawn to law enforcement. Sporting a cropped mustache, Carillo drove a sizable pickup truck, rode motorcycles, and drank a lot with the other cops. He'd made detective faster than anyone who had worked their way up the hard way in the department and was tireless at running down leads.

Mac thought cycles were dangerous, didn't like the way he looked in a mustache, and wasn't particularly mentally stimulated when socializing with his brethren in law enforcement. Mac didn't even appear to be a cop. As a sheriff's detective he worked plainclothes, wearing a sport jacket and dress pants just as he had when he was with the LAPD. Black Irish handsome, he came across more like a therapist or even a low-keyed trial attorney and had the attentive air of someone who listened from the moment you opened your mouth. His intelligently sensitive hazel eyes said,
I respect your point of view, I understand your feelings.

The phone rang and Mac grabbed it. “Schneider.”

It was Mel Benedict, sergeant in charge of search and rescue.

“Just got a call from the boss,” Benedict said. “Two hotshot Seattle lawyers with friends in high places are MIA on a hike up in east county. Probably nothing, but one of our patrol guys found the car's door clicker up a trail.”

“Maybe they just dropped it. Why you calling me?”

“Could you take it? I'd really appreciate it.”

“Take it? Take what?”

“We need to make an effort here, Mac, at least till they're found.”

“No. No way. MPs are one thing but this is just hikers. I don't do hikers.”

“Look, I've got my in-laws. Plus you're the man.”

“Please, I'm choking on the smoke,” said Mac.

Mac was used to it. He had been a decorated detective at the Los Angeles Police Department's Robbery Homicide Division for ten years. His experience in the legendary war zones of the Hollenbeck and Rampart divisions had bestowed a major rep on him among his fellow sheriffs in his new home in northwestern Washington. He had left the LAPD and moved to the Northwest to join the Snoho Sheriff, and, hopefully, enjoy a little slower pace. Because of his considerable “combat” experience, many in the department turned to Mac for advice or to bat cleanup.

“It would be a huge favor,” said Benedict.

“So you want me to go up there and help look for these clowns? A detective looking for hikers?” Mac said, hoping to squirm out of a drive into the rainy mountains.

“Is Carillo there?”

“Yeah.”

“What's he on?”

Mac looked over to Carillo. “What're you on?”

“I'm working twenty-two cases. Why?”

Benedict overheard Carillo. “I figured he had nothing to do. Take him with you. You could use the company. This is just for show, Mac. The word came down to make this a priority. I just need someone to steer things. You two go, I'll give you a few deputies, and S & R will be there. Hey, these guys'll probably turn up by the time you get there.”

“You owe me,” Mac answered and hung up.

Carillo shrugged questioningly.

“Some lawyers went missing,” said Mac. “Hikers, probably just lost. But they're VIPs. Wanna take a ride? Benedict says I could use the company.”

“Shit, I thought it was something good.”

Mac smiled. “They can't all be drug busts. Let's roll.”

Carillo grabbed his jacket, then paused, looking at the wall-mounted television. It was tuned to the Saturday ten o'clock news. A reporter, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde, had just appeared, doing a report from a rain-soaked location.

Mac read his partner too easily and rarely missed a chance to mock him. “I didn't know you ever watched the news.”

“Fuck the news,” gasped Carillo, “You see her? What a fox!”

Mac shook his head. “Don't you get enough at home?”

Married with two kids, Carillo ignored Mac's question. “Man, I'd tap that,” he leered.

“Put it back in your pants, Romeo. The sooner we get there, the sooner we're done.”

Carillo took a last look and headed toward the door. As he was exiting the office, Mac stole a quick glance at the television. Carillo was right. The reporter was beautiful.

As he ascended the soft soil of the sheer grade in five-foot strides, the nocturnal buzz of small animal noises dimmed in his path. He could feel the presence of others, a gathering of the small two-legs. He reached a flat spot and followed it around the curve of the hill.

Moments later, many hardshells with colored fire on their backs came into view below him. As the hardshells arrived, they closed their night-fire eyes and small two-legs climbed out of their insides. His visual acuity was superb, and he saw other small two-legs walking between the hardshells. He did not know what power the small two-legs had over the hardshells, but he began to think the hardshells were either creations or servants of the small two-legs.

On first encountering hardshells he thought them living beings, but since he could feel the mind voices or vibrations of all creatures on some level, it was strange these had none. They seemed to be under the control of the small two-legs and, as the small two-legs were his new prey, knowing that about their relationship with the hardshells might be useful.

He knew the small two-legs had come for the ones he had killed. He sized up the assembled figures, watching as more hardshells came and many more small two-legs scurried about. His count of the small two-legs was two hands and four fingers. He visualized attacking them, knowing the waves of fear from so many would be a very strong sensation. Upon them so fast none could respond, he could quickly kill them all. The thrill of snuffing out so many of those frightened little mind voices was enticing. But his intelligence allowed him to imagine one or two escaping in their hardshells to warn the other small two-legs. And he
knew there were others out there. Like rocks in a stream, many, many others.

No, he would watch. His belly was full and he would wait. Small two-legs were easy to take. He was closer to where they lived. He could take some when he was hungry, or take some for the pleasure, whenever he desired. He was beginning to enjoy his revenge.

He sat down to watch the activity.

BOOK: The Shadowkiller
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