The Shadowkiller (9 page)

Kris narrowed her eyes. “Sounds like an ‘or something' to me.”

A rugged, bearded man in a Mariners ball cap appeared out of the darkness up the trail, three bloodhounds dragging him by their leashes. Deputy Bill recognized the dog man and yelled, “Hey, Harley.”

Harley Quivers looked uneasy as he strode up, his three dogs quiet, their tails held low.

“Been trackin' for years,” he said, spitting Skoal-blackened saliva for effect. “Men, bear, cougars, you name it. But I ain't never seen no dogs spook like that. Picked up a scent but they just wouldn't follow it, not into the woods or any further up the trail. I'm history.”

As Harley Quivers and his chickened-out dogs passed them, Bill Alexander fell silent, knowing only too well that feeling. Kris looked to Mac and their eyes met briefly. The revelations of the missing logger and the scared dogs posed questions neither could easily answer. Mac acknowledged to himself that Kris Walker's notion of foul play might have just taken on a little more credence.

Ty wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a Diet Coke. Tired, he didn't want any deep discussions but they hadn't really spoken all day.

“How was the meeting?” he asked.

“The usual.” Ronnie muted the TV weather report predicting intermittent rain all week. “When I got home, Mere and her friends were out by the pool and Amy was on the phone.”

“She uses our phone more than we do,” Ty quipped.

“Well, it's the last time. We need someone full-time, like a nanny or au pair.”

Ty knew Ronnie felt slightly threatened abdicating some of her motherly duties, but she would do anything to protect her kids.

“How would we find one?” he asked.

“I asked around. One agency was highly recommended.”

“So, we interview prospects?” he asked.

“Yeah. If that's what we want to do. We've got a couple of rooms we could put someone in. What do you think?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let's do it.”

Ronnie hesitated. “Shouldn't we talk to the kids first?”

Ty smiled affectionately to himself. Ronnie was a team player and brought the kids in on decisions when Ty thought they should just be told:
I outrank you, therefore you'll do as I say.
In this case she was right, since it was the kids who would be taking orders from someone other than their parents.

“Yeah, let's tell them what we have in mind,” Ty suggested. “I'll bet they go for it. It'll give them someone new to torture.”

Ronnie smiled wistfully. “Okay.” His simple, light remark reminded her she wanted the old Ty back, the man who used to crack jokes and laugh and make witty retorts and smile a lot. She desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, but there was a wall between them, as tangible as if it were made of steel.

Ronnie picked up the TV remote and pushed the off button. “I'm sleepy,” she said. “You coming?”

Ty nodded. “Right behind you.”

Ronnie reached over the counter and put her cup in the sink.

“It's Sunday,” she said with the tiniest hesitation, “wanna sleep in?”

Ty knew what her coded words meant. Intimacy was a lot to ask of him right now, despite part of him wanting it so badly. He decided he'd try.

“Yeah. Let's sleep in.”

Ronnie blew him a kiss and exited for the stairs. Ty sipped his soda and looked at the tall black windows, following rivulets as they streaked the glass.

He watched the small two-legs moving below. Some had climbed the trail and passed him in the darkness. He knew the dogs sensed him. He felt their fear. Their fear was dim, like a cloudy day, different from the sunshine fear of the small two-legs. But it was still fear. They did not follow him.

When the last of the small two-legs climbed inside their hardshells and the hardshells opened their night-fire eyes and ran away, he moved up the hill. He mostly slept by day and traveled by night, and though a night rain usually found him seeking shelter, tonight he was restless and not cold.

Easily ascending a slope that would have left a small two-leg scrambling on all fours, he moved for a while, first upward, then steadily down, into a valley. He drank from a strong flowing stream, then followed it, the cold water soothing his feet.

Eventually, something caught his attention: fire. He kept his eyes on it; it grew brighter as he moved farther down the stream. Then he saw that the fire was coming from inside the wood cave of a small two-leg. He had seen other wood caves of the small two-legs, and this one was smaller than most.

He sensed a presence within.

He moved closer to the wood cave, which rested a few strides above him on top of the bank. A screaming came from within. It was a wounded animal noise, like the squeals some animals made as he killed them. But he realized no animal could cry out that long and, searching his thoughts and senses, felt no waves of distress from a living creature. All he felt was the small two-leg, and its thoughts were calm. He decided the small twoleg was somehow making the noise.

He was not hungry nor was he particularly curious about the shrieking sound from the wood cave. But in his mind was the earlier vision of all those small two-legs milling below him and his abandoned plan to kill them. Then his mind flashed back to the Great Fire and why he was here and his anger rose. He took stock of the fragile little wood cave, pictured the noisy small two-leg within, and reached a conclusion: this one was trapped.

N
ot content to wait on her political connections or the police, Karen Roberts had stayed on the phone through the night, calling friends for help or advice. One of those she reached was Steve Keener, a take-charge senior partner from Mitch's firm. Promising her he would find them, twenty minutes later Keener left the comfort of his waterfront town home in Madison Park and headed out to gather other members of the firm.

Mac glanced at his watch, not surprised it was nearly midnight. He ran a hand through his thick, black hair, soaked from the chronic, misting rain. He looked over at Carillo, a dozen yards away scribbling in his notepad, then at the Channel 7 van. The crew was nearly packed and ready to roll and Kris Walker sat relaxing in the passenger seat, door open, smoking a cigarette as she made notes.

Mac loathed cigarettes but suddenly the vision of a beautiful woman with a burning white cylinder between her fingers seemed intensely sensual. Kris made eye contact and gave a slight nod, as if to acknowledge that earlier she had only been doing her job and it was nothing personal. At least Mac decided to take the gesture that way.

Kris's eyes discreetly followed Mac the cop. She liked tall men, being five nine herself. And with those smart eyes and the slight wave to his jet-black hair he had a kind of Russell Crowe thing going. Putting aside thoughts of the cop for a moment, she felt she was on to an interesting story but didn't want to go as far as admitting it could be
really
interesting. She felt this might be more than just two lost hikers and a logger on an unscheduled vacation. The dogs with their tails between their legs, Barney Fife's story about the missing guy, the door clicker and possible blood, and then these two lawyers. She didn't have a full equation but it looked…interesting.

Carillo approached Mac. “I'd say it's time to get outta here.”

“Search teams all in?” Mac asked.

“Yeah.”

Mac watched the news van back up and drive away, then noticed Deputy Bill Alexander speaking with the two other deputies and a guy from search and rescue.

“What do think of the Weyerhaeuser guy?” Mac asked.

Carillo looked over at Deputy Bill and snorted derisively. “He's tellin' me the story of finding the guy's truck and I swear he's gonna piss his pants. And his so-called blood never panned out. I suppose if these guys really are missing, it's worth looking into.”

Down the road, headlight beams cut through the streaks of rain and turned the corner. A gleaming new Range Rover lumbered up and four men got out. The group crossed to Mac and Carillo, led by a lean, athletic-looking man in his late fifties.

Carillo looked them over with suspicion. “Can we help you?” he asked challengingly.

“Is this where Mitch Roberts and Jack Remsbecker went missing?” asked their leader.

“You friends?” Mac asked.

“Friends and associates,” he said, extending his hand. “Steve Keener.” Then he gestured to the others, who responded in kind. “Alan Erickson, Adam Olinka, John Cothran.”

Mac and Carillo obliged in a flurry of handshakes.

“We're with the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department,” said Mac, “and we're just shutting down for the night. We've called back the search teams. This terrain is too dangerous at night. You guys are welcome to help us at first light. Probably around seven, seven thirty.”

Keener shook his head. “Thanks, but we're going to take a fly now. They might be hurt.”

Carillo rolled his eyes. He didn't need any more missing lawyers. “We can't let you do that. Too risky.”

One of the other men, Adam Olinka, an intense young man in wire-rims who appeared fresh out of Harvard Law, took up the gauntlet.

“Look, Deputy—”

“Detective,” Carillo corrected.

“Detective,” amended Olinka. “These men are both our friends and colleagues. We promised their families we'd look for them. And legally, you really can't stop us. Sorry.”

Carillo didn't like this trim, clean-cut young lawyer. Sure he was smart, but he was soft. Maybe he played basketball or was in a spinning class at the gym, but had he ever had his life threatened? Would he know if his life were in danger? Of course not.

Carillo spun on his heels. “Fuck it, pal. It's your funeral.”

Mac knew Carillo detested successful men, and these guys wore their superiority as proudly as they did their expensive REI slickers, Gore-Tex–lined boots and Panerai watches. He nodded toward the trail. “Guys, just be careful. I've been up there a few hundred yards and even with flashlights it's tricky. The trail'll make abrupt switchbacks along the edges of some hairy drop-offs. Watch out. It's definitely a trail for daylight.”

Keener nodded, then asked, “Any evidence of what happened? Where they might be?”

“No,” Mac answered. “We found the keys to the Cherokee, but nothing else. All of our patrols in the area, both on this side as well as the other side of the mountain, have been alerted to keep their eyes open. And like my partner said, we'll be back in the morning with search teams.”

“Thanks,” said Olinka, patting Mac's shoulder patronizingly. “Bring us some coffee then, would ya?”

With that, the men headed up the trail, their boots generating the dull scraping sounds of hard rubber on wet gravel and dirt. Mac watched their powerful flashlights crisscrossing the darkness as they slowly receded up the trail. A moment later the lights disappeared and their voices dialed down and out. Mac went to the car and climbed in.

Carillo was steaming. “Now we'll have to save their sorry asses too.”

“Maybe. I think they'll be okay.”

Carillo slammed the car in gear and dug out, spinning gravel onto the Range Rover.

“Sorry motherfuckers! I hope they die. It'd make me happier'n a pig in shit to zip that smart-ass bitch with the glasses into a body bag.”

Mac looked over at Carillo. The man could be insensitive but this went beyond the pale.

“You don't mean that, Karl. It's bad karma.”

Carillo looked over angrily. “Fuck karma.”