The White Carnation (21 page)

As soon as she was buckled in, he pulled the vehicle back onto the road. “We'll be in the main village within five minutes. We can check out the movie theater. There might be something on that you'd like to see.”

“Dinner and a movie? You'll spoil me.”

I'd like to,
he thought, but he was smart enough to keep his opinion to himself.

“When this is over, we should come back for a few days. We can stay in one of the hotels and get an Olympic passport. It'll let us visit all the Olympic sites—maybe we can even take a bobsled ride.”

“That's it! That's why those women look familiar—not all of them, but Tracy Volt. I remember her from the Fotomat where I had my passport pictures taken! We talked about her upcoming trip to Europe. She was going to Italy in December. That was in late August. Her hair was red at the time and chin-length.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive!”

“Tell me everything you remember about the place, about her,” Rob said, and Faye heard the excitement in his voice. She closed her eyes to focus on that moment in time.

“I don't know why I didn't remember sooner,” she answered, annoyed with herself. “It was one of those incredibly muggy Sunday mornings, and Mom had dragged me to Boston Presbyterian because she was meeting old friends there after the service. You and I were going to the baseball game in the afternoon, and I had some time to kill. I walked past the Fotomat and remembered I needed to get my passport renewed before spring, so I thought, ‘Why not do it now?' Plus, it had to be ninety-five degrees, and the place had AC. It was crowded, so I took a number and sat down next to Tracy Volt.”

Faye stretched and turned to look out the car window at the scenery, hoping to use it to solidify her memory of that day. There was something specific she needed to recollect. It was there, just out of reach.

“That's it? That's all you remember? How do you know it was Tracy Volt?” He frowned.

“Give me a minute, will you? It was two years ago. I distinctly recall the girl working there, collecting the information. She was strange. I mean she was more than your typical tattooed and pierced teenager. It must've taken hours to ink half her face that way. Tracy asked her about it, but I wasn't really paying attention. I almost left because it was taking forever to get the pictures done.”

“Who took the pictures? Your tattooed girl?”

“I thought so at first, since she went into the back, but it couldn't have been her. When it was my turn, the photographer was in some kind of enclosure, but when Tracy was having hers done just before me, the girl was at the desk taking information on the next person.”

“I see. Go on.”

“After the picture was taken, you had to wait for a few minutes until the girl came out with the snapshots for you. Most people were in and out quickly, but Tracy and I had to have our pictures redone. I was really annoyed because I thought I'd be late meeting you at the station, but the girl assured us it wouldn't take long. Apparently our faces had too much shine on them. I made small talk while we waited. Tracy mentioned she was an artist and was really excited about her upcoming trip in December to Italy. She hoped to see the Pope celebrate Christmas Mass in St. Peter's Square.” She stopped talking to do some quick calculations.

“You found her body early in August, right? Counting backward, nine months would mean he made his move in November. There's your three-month window. If he picked her out in August, he could've done it there at the Fotomat. My God, he could have chosen me then, too.” The horror made her stomach clench. “We were still together. If he followed me, he'd have known that, but once we broke up …”

“Do you remember if any of the others had to have retakes?”

“No, just Tracy and me. I thought it strange since neither my face nor Tracy's looked shiny, but the girl dabbed baby powder on us to eliminate the glare. I had to redo my makeup. The damn powder made me look dead …” She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

“Give me the location of the Fotomat, and I'll text Clark as soon as we get to Lake Placid. This could be the break we need.”

“It was the one on North Street near Faneuil Hall.” She felt beads of sweat form on her brow. “Rob, I wore my hair down that day, held in place with a headband.”

He reached over and squeezed her fingers. “If that's where he selected his victims—and we don't know that—I think you and Tracy were chosen because you resembled someone, some other woman. The hair's just a coincidence.”

“But in my case, it might have increased the similarity.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Let's have Trevor follow it up before we jump to conclusions. This might be nothing more than a coincidence. If he's an employee at that Fotomat, it might be where he chooses his victims, but there are hundred places in the Boston area where you can get your passport picture taken. Just because you and Tracy were at the same place at the same time might not mean anything. Now, if he worked for the State Department, he'd have access to thousands of pictures each month. It could take forever to find the women he wanted. On the other hand, if he narrowed his list, looking specifically at women living within a fifty-mile radius of the city, then he'd find them sooner. If that's the case, we have somewhere to start looking. But, if he's the cult leader, would he have a civil-service job?”

“He might,” Faye said. “A lot of cults have members who work on the outside, some in important jobs where they glean information for the group. Working in the civil service would be an easy place to garner data, and the passport office would be a good place to look for women, especially women who travel.”

“That's right. With all of the travel restrictions after 9-11, a passport's essential, and he'd have access to all their information, as would any place that had taken the pictures, making them easy to track and trace. I'll have Trevor start with that Fotomat. If anyone there recognizes any of the other victims, we may get lucky.”

Faye nodded, blinked to keep the tears from falling, and looked out the window again. How long had the Harvester or his flunky been watching her, waiting for a chance to strike?

The trees and rock faces gave way to buildings and signs. The Olympic Ski Jump site, the Lake Placid Fairgrounds, a sign announcing the home of Abolitionist John Brown was open, and the Swedish Hill Winery were soon replaced by hotels, motels, souvenir shops, and churches as they entered the core of the village.

Rob parked in a small lot, and Faye followed him into the post office. Dr. Chong had left her mailbox keys by the door in the cabin. No one looked at the names too closely—it was the keys and the corresponding numbers that counted.

Rob found box 1478 and inserted the key. He pulled out a card and handed it to the postmaster.

“Right. Government package. Just came in an hour ago. I'll get it.” The man at the counter went into the back and came out with a large box. “Initial here.” He handed Rob a clipboard and a form with a number of signatures on it already.

“Wow. Good thing that guy's not in charge of national security. He didn't even look at you,” Faye said as they exited. “I didn't expect such a big box. Agent Clark must have sent you a lot of stuff. Lock it in the trunk for now and show me the town. I need to get this monster out of my head for a while. You promised me dinner and a movie.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave her a playful mock salute. “Let's move the car to the public lot down the street, and then I'll show you some of my favorite places. You can pick the movie.”

• • •

The drive back to the cabin was a dark one with only their headlights piercing the blackness of the night, illuminating the thin ribbon of highway they'd traveled earlier. The fear she'd suppressed all day intensified in the darkness. Anyone could be in those woods, watching and waiting. Rob drove slowly because of the ever-present danger of deer, and she was relieved to see the glow of lights indicating the chalet.

It was well after midnight. The first thing Faye noticed when they entered was the flashing light indicating a message on the phone. Rob dialed, punched in the code, listened to the message, and then hung up.

“It was Clark. I'll call him in the morning. He gave me a little information but didn't say it was urgent, and the man has to be in bed by now. Care for a nightcap?”

“I'll get it.” She walked over to the small bar where Rob had left the bottle of Irish whiskey and poured some into two glasses. There wasn't any ice, but she preferred the liquor neat, as did he. She was looking through the doctor's CD collection when she heard him come up behind her. She handed him a glass. The frown on his face indicated he wasn't pleased with Clark's news.

“What did he say?”

“He didn't say much. He contacted someone at State about the passports. He'll tell me more when I call, but he can confirm that all of the victims renewed their passports within the last two and a half years. Mary renewed hers in August.”

“That's good news then. It's a connection. Did the same person process all the applications?”

“He doesn't know, but apparently that's unlikely. They have more than thirty employees in that department.”

“Damn. So we've hit another dead end?” She took a drink.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don't know, and I doubt Trevor does yet either. It's another piece of the very complicated puzzle that is this case. It may or may not fit. Everything we have is circumstantial or supposition. I do have some good news for you—at least I think it's good news. They found Mary's dog at a shelter outside Boston and rescued it before it was due to be euthanized. The vet had seen the bulletin about a missing dog and checked for an ear tattoo. The dog will be boarded, at Boston PD's expense, until we get back—I thought you might want it. Clark will send someone over to that Fotomat on Monday, and just to be on the safe side, State will pull the passports for the victims and see if the pictures came from the same place. Given where they lived, it's a long shot, but it's all we got.”

She nodded and drained her glass. “I'll hang on to Muffin until we find Mary and she can take her home again.” And if they didn't find Mary in time …

Rob finished his drink, checked that the doors and windows were locked, and went to get the sleeping bag.

“Rob, don't. Come up to bed with me.”

He stared at her, and for a moment, the thought he might refuse filled her with panic.

“Faye, if we do this again, there's no turning back.”

“I know.” Tears filled her eyes. “I can't be alone, not tonight. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, and they climbed the stairs.

• • •

Faye awoke to the smell of fresh coffee. It was raining outside, and the room was cooler than it had been. She'd slept well, probably because of the exhaustion brought on by great sex, but she felt more like herself.
Of course you do,
her conscience prodded.
It's daytime, and you aren't alone.
The monsters live in the dark.
She shivered, hurried out of bed, showered, and dressed quickly. After tidying the sheets and blankets, she rushed downstairs, eager to look at the mail. They had to find this bastard as soon as they could. They had less than two months before Mary's due date, but that had to be enough.

Rob sat at the kitchen table completely engrossed in the file he was reading. The box they'd collected from the post office was empty on the floor next to the table. The fresh muffins they'd picked up at the bakery sat on the kitchen counter. The minute Faye walked into the room, Rob stood up and reached for her.

“I didn't hear you. I'd have brought you breakfast in bed.” He wiggled his eyebrows and made her laugh.

“Sure you would have, and if you had, we might not have gotten to the mail until way later today. I know how much you enjoy your morning exercise.”

He shrugged. “You're right. Let's get you coffee and a muffin, and then you can go through your piles of junk mail. I don't think I'd check mine that often too if that's all I got.”

She followed him over to the counter, and while she waited for the coffee maker to work its magic, she grabbed a lemon-blueberry muffin from the box and took a bite. When her coffee was ready, he carried it over to the table for her and set it at the place across from his.

“One of the hotels does a big brunch on Sundays. We can go there later. I don't think we should be tempting fate, so we should make a trip to the pharmacy.” He winked at her.

“Sounds like a plan.” He had sorted the mail on the table into three piles—one much larger than the others. Rob was poring through the papers in the smallest pile.

“Is that one for me?” Faye asked incredulously, staring at the small mountain of mail.

“They both are. The biggest pile is from your mailbox at work. The other is the junk mail and stuff that collected in your home mailbox last week. Your newspapers were there, too. I put them over near the couch.”

“All that mail was in my box at the paper? That makes no sense. It wouldn't have fit!”

“It looks like a lot of flyers, ads for various shows and openings, but there are half a dozen business letters and twice that many personal ones. The mail clerk has been tossing it in a bag for the last six months. Here's that note that went with it.”

Faye reached across the table for the small piece of paper. It was one of her personalized memo notes—
From the desk of F. Lewis
. The pad sat on her desk next to her phone. She examined the handwriting.

“I didn't write that,” she said, handing it back to him.

“How can you be so sure? It looks like your writing to me.”

“It does, but believe me, it isn't. It wouldn't take a forensic handwriting expert to prove it either. You can bet the farm that Tina Jackson, my competition at the paper, wrote that, but I can't imagine why. Why stop me from getting this kind of junk? The woman's an idiot, but seriously, what's the point?”