Under Cover of Darkness (16 page)

His biggest fear was that he'd say the wrong thing, only make it worse. That seemed like the kind of problem a professional could help him work out. On the quick, he found a respected child psychiatrist who agreed to squeeze him in at the end of the day. He drove halfway to Bellevue, onl
y t
o find that in rush-hour traffic he was never going to make it by six-thirty. A total waste of time. He called ahead and canceled, turned the car around, and went home.

By then it was eight o'clock. Carla met him at the door. She had picked Morgan up at Bertschi, spent the rest of the day with her, fed her dinner, and--to his dismay--already put her to bed.

"Poor little darling was wiped out," said Carla. "I don't think she's sleeping well."

"Thanks for looking after her," he said as he tossed his leather jacket on the kitchen table. "With all that's going on, I can really use all the help I can get."

"Glad to do it. Morgan's like a daughter to me."

That was hardly an overstatement. With no living grandparents, Morgan had grown very fond of her Aunt Carla. Somewhere, there had to be a softer side to her. The side that wasn't totally beaten down by an abusive old boyfriend who had truly done far worse things to Carla than had ever been made up about Gus and Beth. Knowing how Carla had suffered at the hands of a manipulative brute made Gus more understanding, more forgiving of a sister who had tried to convince his own wife that no man could be trusted. It took Beth's disappearance to make him finally realize how little he'd done over the years to convince Carla he could be trusted.

"Listen, Gus. I just wanted to say, I know you haven't been to work all week. You're out there looking for Beth. Doing whatever you can." She lowered her lead and dug her hands in her jeans pockets, struggling for words. "Anyway, I was pretty ugly to you right after Beth was missing. I'm sorry about that."

"Forget it."

"No, really. You've surprised me."

He looked askance, sort of a backhanded compliment But he would take whatever he could get. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Carla."

"Could be the only nice thing."

It was funny in a way, but neither one laughed. It was pathetic, too, but they just shared the moment, the simple pleasure of brother and sister having a somewhat normal conversation.

"There's brisket in the oven if you're hungry. Morgan didn't eat much of it."

"Thanks." He glanced down the hall, then back at Carla. "I was hoping to talk to her tonight. Didn't want to let this fester too long."

"She's out. Wait till morning."

"Yeah. Probably a good idea."

Carla grabbed her coat. "Well, good night. Call me if you need anything."

"I will." He followed her to the door, opened it.

She stopped at the threshold. "When you talk to Morgan, do me a favor."

"What?"

"Be the new Gus."

He gave a subtle nod. She walked to her car and pulled away. He watched her all the way, looking away only when the glowing orange taillights were completely out of sight.

He drove well below the speed limit. Used his blinker when turning. Was courteous to other drivers, avoiding any possibility of collision. His cargo was too precious to take risks. Lifeless, but precious.

Odor was not an issue. The windowless van was filled with flowers, literally dozens of beautiful, fragrant bouquets. He'd purchased them in bulk at wholesale, most of them on the verge of dying, so they were cheap enough. If he were stopped for any reason--a traffic ticket, a broken taillight--he was just a delivery boy for some mom-and-pop florist shop. Only a trained canine could sniff out the stench of death from beneath the bed of blossoms.

He had wanted to dispose of the body last night, but i
t h
adn't worked out. It wasn't until he had driven all the way to the dump site that he developed a keen suspicion that police were staking out the public park he had selected. It wasn't anything obvious, just a sixth sense that more patrol cars were in the area than usual. He trusted his instincts on such things. Just to be safe, he had decided to hold the body till tonight and dump it well outside Seattle.

It was over an hour's drive, but he didn't mind it. He often took long drives. It was curious, in a way. He'd read a book by a former FBI profiler who said geographically transient serial killers often took long drives. Only after reading it did he develop the urge. The power of suggestion. Or maybe he really did fit the profile.

No way.

The road turned more desolate as the van headed west, mile after mile. Somewhere above the thick blanket of clouds was a beaming full moon, but the misty night was black, especially this far into the wilderness. It would have been easy to get lost had he not known the way. The dilapidated old barn at the base of the hill marked his turn. He steered off the highway and onto a gravel road. The talisman hanging from the rearview mirror swung sharply with the turn, nearly hitting him in the face.

It was a gold ring on a long chain.

Muddy water splashed up from a puddle and onto the windshield. He switched on the wipers and cleared the mess away. The van slowed to a crawl. He switched off the headlights. Just ahead was the park entrance. He hit one last pothole. The van rocked. Flowers fell behind him. The gold ring and chain slipped off the rearview mirror. He tried to catch it in midair but missed. It fell to the floor, rolling like a lost penny. He hit the brakes in a panic, slammed the van into Park. He was on his knees searching for the ring, groping beneath the seat.

"Damn it--shit!"

It was futile in the darkness, but he didn't dare switch o
n a
light this close to the dump site. Blindly, he reached beneath the passenger seat, searching frantically. A pen and a coin he tossed aside furiously. Then he stopped. And smiled. He had it. Relieved, he clutched the ring tightly. He drew a deep breath, as if drawing on its power. To him it was more than just a piece of jewelry. The engraving inside

said it all: IN APPRECIATION -T
. V. I
.

It was his father's ring--commemorating his many years of service at the Torture Victims' Institute.

He slipped the ring into his pocket and zipped it closed, now ready for the task at hand.

A shrill scream woke him.

Gus jackknifed in bed. The master bedroom was quiet and dimly lit. Another rainy night had turned into a gray Thursday morning. He had tossed and turned most of the night, wondering if the police were doing enough to find Beth, wondering if Morgan would ever trust him again. By dawn he had finally reached a deep sleep. The sudden noise had him awake but disoriented. His heart pumped with adrenaline. He couldn't remember what he was dreaming, or if he had been dreaming at all, but he was sure he must have dreamed the scream.

Until he heard it again. Louder. He jumped out of bed. It was no dream. It had come from Morgan's room.

"Morgan!" He sprinted down the hall to her room. The door was open a crack. It slammed against the wall as he burst inside.

He stopped cold. Morgan was kneeling atop the mattress, hunched over her pillow. Crimson droplets stained the pink pillow case. She looked up with terror in her eyes. Her mouth was bloodied.

"Oh, my God!" He rushed to the bed and held her. "My toot'," she mumbled.

He pried her mouth open. One of her incisors was dangling by the roots, horribly twisted. She had apparentl
y w
orked it free in her sleep. It was painful just to look at it, yet he was somewhat relieved. In his sprint of panic down the hall, he had feared much more than the loss of a baby tooth.

"It hurts!"

"I know it does, sweetheart." He touched it gently, testing the exposed root.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. It doesn't seem ready to come out yet. At least not the rest of the way out."

"Take it out!"

He raised his hand to her mouth, then pulled away tentatively. The gum was red and raw, ripe for infection. "I don't want to make it worse."

"Get Mommy. I want Mommy to do it."

He wasn't sure what to say. "Let's go see your dentist." "I hate the dentist."

"So do I. But she's the best person to do this."

She started to cry. "Mommy's the best person. Mommy wiggled my other teeth out."

"Mommy's not here."

"Call her. Tell her she needs to come home."

The piercing eyes made him shiver. He saw total distrust, as if she knew he had the power to bring her mommy home but for some reason he wouldn't. She'd nearly ripped a tooth from her mouth to force his hand. It was a savvy six-year-old's power play: either call Mommy home, or prove it wasn't you who made her go away.

"Let's go see the dentist, okay?" He held her tight, brushing the hair from her face. "Then you and I should have a talk."

The alarm sounded, and then the phone rang. It was a double-whammy, like rolling out of bed and stepping on a land mine. Andie oriented herself, cut off the screaming alarm and answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Henning. Dick Kessler here. Got another body."

Andie was suddenly wide awake. She jotted down the information. "I'll see you there," she said, then hung up. In less than five minutes she was out the door and on the road, headed for Lakewood Park.

The town of Issaquah was southeast of Seattle and beautiful Lake Washington. It was an area more rural than suburban Bellevue to the north, though everything in the region had built up since she was a little girl exploring with her father. Still, parts of town had remained much the way Andie had remembered it, nestled in a valley between Squak, Tiger and Cougar mountains, a quaint shopping attraction with wooden boardwalks, plenty of colorful flowers in planters, and old clapboard-style homes that had been turned into stores. Memories came back as she cruised past the general store and continued to the park just outside the village.

Andie couldn't remember the last time she'd visited this area, but she'd never forget the first. She was ten years old, living at the time well south of Seattle outside Tacoma. She and her father had driven up to Issaquah for a town festival. On the way home, Andie wanted to navigate. Her father checked the glove compartment for road maps, and Andie saw his handgun. As a cop, he always carried it with him. Andie had forever wanted to shoot it, but under her mother's rule she had a three-year wait: no guns till the thirteenth birthday. Andie prevailed on him all the way home, promising never to tell Mom if he would just let her fire off a few rounds. Finally he gave in. They got off the highway and drove a short while to a wide-open spot in the White River Valley. Her dad set up some soda cans on a tree stump. He stood behind her, holding her small hands in his as she closed one eye and took careful aim. Her hand shook slightly as she squeezed the trigger. She missed the first one, then hit the next three. She was squealing wit
h d
elight when a stranger startled them from behind. He was an old man with long gray hair and a weathered face. Two dark feathers protruded from his brimmed felt hat.

"Who is that, Dad?" she whispered nervously.

"He's an Indian."

The man spoke, his face expressionless. "You can't shoot here. This is reservation land."

"But I'm part Indian."

Her father took her by the hand. "Let's go, Andie. That doesn't matter."

She loved her parents, two hardworking white middle-class people who truly loved their half-Indian adopted daughter. To this day, however, those words stuck with her. Maybe it was the tone in her father's voice. Maybe it was the way he had scowled at the old Muckleshoot Indian. But those three words--"That doesn't matter"--seemed to sum up her past. Out of respect for her adoptive parents, she had never bucked their wishes and sought out her birth mother's Indian heritage. That void in her own life had affected her in many ways. Ironically, it may well have fueled her fascination for this kind of police work-
-
victimology and criminal profiling. There, everything mattered. Every little detail about a person's life mattered so completely.

She steered onto the side road, that thought in mind. Details. Intimate details, from the number of fillings in her teeth to the legs that had needed shaving. The scrapings beneath the fingernails. The search for semen in her pubic hair. The contents of her stomach. It made Andie feel guilty in a way. She, a perfect stranger, was about to learn more than anyone had ever known about a young woman in Lakewood Park.

Victim number four.

Chapter
Twenty.

Andieparked in the lot and walked toward the squad car and two deputy sheriffs who were posted at the gated entrance. It wasn't much of a gate, just a long metal pole that ran parallel to the ground and swung on a hinge. It kept vehicles out after dark, but vagrants on foot could simply duck under it and come and go as they pleased. Yellow police tape was strung across the entrance. Just inside the park, rows of police officers walked three feet apart, combing the grounds for clues, like a farmer plowing the field. Andie pulled her trench coat tight. It wasn't quite cold enough to steam her breath, but the dampness made it feel colder than it was. She stopped at the gate and flashed her credentials to the deputy.