Trail of Echoes (41 page)

Hope you land in a place where someone loves you best of all.

“Shit, Lou,” Colin whispered.

“The girls went with him because they trusted him,” I said. “And they trusted him—”

“Because he was their doctor.”

And I trusted him because he was a doctor.

I groaned, then rubbed my face with my free hand. My stomach and head hurt—my brain was kicking both and calling me “stupid” and “blind” in between kicks.

“So what's the plan?” my partner asked.

“Let's find out where he lives,” I said. “Get his license plate number from the DMV and put out a BOLO. I'll drive to one of the medical offices—send a car over to cover me.”

“Yep,” Colin said. “And keep your radio on.”

I turned the key in the ignition. “See you on the other side, partner.”

 

57

Crenshaw Boulevard was peppered with early-morning commuters, and a line had formed in Krispy Kreme's drive-through. No clouds—the storms had passed, leaving a perfect sky the color of a robin's egg. At the shopping plaza across from the funeral home, I made a right onto the small side street, then parked.

I called Colin. “Where y'all at?”

“Driving to the house,” he said. “And it's right on the side of the park, Lou. We stopped there when we walked over on Friday—you talked to his girlfriend. White girl, blond…”

I closed my eyes and saw the golden-haired pediatric surgeon in my mind
.

“Lemme call you back,” Colin said. “L.T.'s blowin' me up.”

I climbed out of the car and made my way through a dark alcove that reeked of urine and spilled beer. Tucked in the corner was a medical office situated between an ancient tax-prep place and a shuttered scrapbook store. I peered into the windows of the clinic.

Lights off. A treasure box on the carpet near the reception desk was filled with goodies for kids to take after their shots and pokes. Magic wands … toy cars … a gold sheriff's badge … a photo frame … a ballerina music box … a book of children's poems …

I tugged at the door.

Locked.

“We're closed today,” the man behind me said.

All feeling left my face.

Zach Fletcher pointed a Beretta at the back of my skull, then moved so close to me that I smelled mint on his breath.

I saw his reflection in the clinic's grimy window. His puppy-dog eyes were still friendly, and his perfect teeth still gleamed. He wore jeans and a blue long-sleeved shirt, as though he were stopping at Home Depot for lightbulbs and grass seed.

“Let's take a drive,” he said. “Don't have much time—got a girl waiting for me.”

The cop part of me told me to chance it, to pull the mini-Glock from my ankle holster and to see what happened next. But he had a girl waiting—
what girl?
And where was she?

My Motorola crackled—was Colin listening?

With his gun still aimed at my head, Zach directed me to the run-down parking lot behind the clinic. “We're walking to the black RAV4.”

No one else was in the lot, and so we reached the small SUV with a license plate starting with 2BT undisturbed.

“I'm not getting in,” I said. “Never get in the car with a kidnapper.”

“Even if he has another girl in a special secret place?”

“What's her name?”

“She's very much alive,” he said, still behind me. “A little slow from her cup of special tea. C'mon, Elouise. I have a wonderful surprise for you in the car.”

My breath came quick. “And if I go, you'll let her go?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

As soon as I get her, I'll shoot him and end this.

“You're driving,” he said. “Open the door.”

I hesitated. “Maybe you should—”

He whispered in my ear, “Every minute we stand here, she's closer to death.”

A moment later, he was seated in the back passenger seat. The gun now nuzzled the base of my skull.

I clicked on my seat belt, then pushed the Toyota's ignition button.

“Look back here and down to your right for your special surprise.”

I obeyed and—“Oh my God.” Icicles jammed my heart.

A girl, her mouth covered with gray electrical tape and her hands bound with twine, huddled down in the back passenger step well. She was in her early teens. Her mocha complexion was gritty from dried tears and snot, and her brown eyes were slits, swollen from crying.

“Now, you will back out of this space,” he calmly instructed. “You will smile, and people who see us will think we're being silly lovers on a Monday morning. Since you're so interested in what I do when I'm not writing prescriptions and performing Pap smears on thirteen-year-old mothers, we will take a hike on one of those trails, where I go on and on about the flora and fauna. Sound good?”

“Zach,” I said, barely breathing, “let her go. I'll still keep my end of the bargain.”

He nudged me with the gun again. “I'm at the beginning of your spinal cord. You will want to focus if you wish to walk or breathe or think on your own. One can't live without a brain. I know this. I'm a doctor.” He paused, then held up a water bottle filled with brown liquid. “Or I can give her this now.” Zach glanced down at the girl. “You thirsty, Taylor?”

The girl whimpered and nodded.

Zach started to unscrew the bottle top.

“Don't,” I shouted. “Okay? I'll…” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, the leather moist beneath my clammy palms. I pulled out of the lot and made a left onto Crenshaw Boulevard.

“Did you like the ciphers?” He sank behind my headrest, and the cool barrel remained at the base of my skull. “It was a joy to watch you move about the board, not knowing that I was in total control.”

A warm drop of sweat trickled down my side. I pressed the gas pedal, and the Toyota's engine responded.

He wrapped his arm around my neck, surprising me with his speed and strength. “Choose your adventure, Detective,” he whispered, then squeezed until I understood.

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

In the rearview mirror, his eyes met mine. “To the place where the wild things are.”

 

58

I wove west on Stocker Boulevard. Rambling homes sat high on the hills. Morning joggers walked up steep sidewalks and along the hillside trails. The rains had turned the land muddy—in a week, though, poppies and wild mustard would poke through the saturated earth.

Would I get to see another LA spring?

“Daydreaming?” the monster asked.

“We're going to Bonner Park,” I said, my body clammy-cold.

“Yes.”

The girl—Taylor—moaned until her moans became cries.

He shushed her and whispered, “It's okay; it's okay.”

My phone, stowed in my bag with my police radio, kept playing the
Star Wars
theme.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.

“I have to. Turn right.”

I accelerated onto La Cienega Boulevard.

“You're a
doctor,
” I said.

“Do you think I've killed every patient I treated?” He snorted. “I'm not a monster. Taylor here I met at the library. She's writing an article on Pluto for Astrology Club. Guess some scientists don't consider Pluto a planet anymore. Taylor was gonna prove them wrong. Such a smart, brave girl.”

“The girls you take,” I said, “they're—”

“Exceptional?” he finished. “Yes. Chanita, Allayna, Tawanna, and Bethany. I don't hate them. I like them. I
love
them. I wish I didn't, because then I wouldn't have thought about them all the time. I would've looked somewhere else. But they stand out. And they, like the Muses of old, resent those who don't see how special, how wonderfully supreme they are. And as their big brother, it is my duty to solve everyone's problem.”

Apollo—the god of healing. Son of Zeus. Olympus, where the gods …
Shit
. I knew this.

“When I read about your sister and where you came from?” He clapped once, then sighed. “I had to have you. You're my Moby Dick. But, unlike Ahab, I caught you and survived.”

I didn't speak.

He poked my skull with the Beretta. “Kill. Heal. Kill. Heal. That's what I do. Sometimes, in the end, they're the same thing.” He chuckled, then sighed. “You've killed.”

“No,” I whispered, a lump in my throat.

He cocked his head. “It's okay—you're uncomfortable in your role. You hold the knife but refuse to use it. But, see, I'm not scared. I fix it. Balance it all. I rescue the sick. Reward the gifted. Balance the bad with good.”

I glared at the road ahead, at the city sparkling before me. The first day of sunshine in weeks, and here I was, on my way to someone's death. Mine.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “Dahmer. Right? Am I right? I'm not crazy. Shouldn't compare me to him.”

A fat tear tumbled down my cheek. “Why did you keep Trina alive for so long?”

“My poet needed to compose an elegy before we all returned home. She came up with something but…” He shrugged. “I've read her prior poems—she could do better than what she wrote about all of this. So I gave her time to get over her … writer's block.”

I cocked my head. “You've read her other…?”

“Why are you so surprised?” he asked. “We talk a lot. They tell me so much. Share so much. No one ever listens to them. They seek me out all the time. Chanita and Allayna? They both came in after they'd been jumped. And Trina … Well, see, her daddy died over in Afghanistan, and we talked about that.

“And I wondered, What have they done to deserve living in the ghetto, around people who don't care, who don't
see
? Hopeless. A waste. I made it better for them. And now they will be remembered.

“I wanted Trina's poem to capture all of this, but … well…” His voice sounded wet and shaky.

Was he crying?

“I talk with them as they lay dying,” he continued. “I find great comfort in that. They do, too. They find great comfort in my being there beside them. That I won't use a gun or a knife or … Tea is calming. Civilized. See how I'm talking to you right now? And in the coffee shop … You can't say that I'm not a great listener.” He glanced down at Taylor. “Don't worry. We're almost there.”

Almost where?
“You said you'd let her go,” I whispered.

“And I will.”

“You'll let her go in
this
world?”

He smiled. “Ha. Yes.” He caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I thought more people would've come to Chanita's funeral. Maybe Allayna's service—”

“You were there, at Mount Saint John's.”

He smirked. “I told you I was. Even spoke to the escort and limo driver.”

My grip weakened around the steering wheel.
So close. He had been so close
.

“In Pakistan last year,” he said, “more than nine hundred females were murdered. Honor killings. On the other side of the world, almost six hundred aboriginal women and girls in
Canada
were either missing or were murdered over the last ten years. Maybe more.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

We reached the entrance to Bonner Park. No one sat in the kiosk.

He nudged the gun. “Keep driving. As I was saying: almost two hundred million girls are missing in the world, and you're going balls-out and using all your superpowers to avenge
eight
?”

Bile burned in my throat.
Eight? He's killed
eight
? There are nine Muses. Who's next? Taylor? Me?

He sighed. “This really makes no sense, Elouise. You're upset with me, but you give that son of a whore Moriaga all the freedom in the world to do as he wants.”

My eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “Moriaga?”

“The pervert that you cops have let rape and disfigure how many girls now? But have you even thanked me yet?”

“Thank you? For what?”

He cocked his chin. “I reported him to your friend's little newspaper when he cornered that girl at the park. Even took a picture of him to prove that he hasn't changed. That he still continued to be a threat to the community. That it was only a matter of time before he raped another one.”

Sweat prickled my underarms, and my vision started to fade. “You're no different from Moriaga. You both lurk in the shadows—”

The Beretta jammed into my neck. “I've
never
forced myself on a
child
. Never. They
wanted
to be with me. If we'd had more time, you'd want to be with me, too. Not once did I force them.
Not once
. Take it back. Take. It. Back.”

Tears burned my eyes. “You don't hear yourself. You don't see how—”

“Is that pity? Are you
pitying
me?” He sighed again as I slowly drove up the narrow road. “So peaceful and beautiful here—I can see this park from my house, you know.”

Bursts of sunlight cut through the trees. Bobcat excavators and tractors for clearing poststorm brush sat on the side of the road like sleeping heavy-metal dinosaurs.

“Pull over here,” he said, “but don't stop the car.”

I tapped the brake:
25 miles per hour … 15 … 10 …

He leaned over and opened the back right passenger door.

I glanced back. “What are you—?”

He remained in the backseat as he pushed Taylor out of the car. “Bye, sweetie.” He closed the door, lifted the Beretta, and aimed it at my right temple. “Shall we?”

Taylor had found her feet and was now running back down the hill.