Victim Six (27 page)

March 27, midnight
Port Orchard

On Saturday night, while her parents were at the Clearwater Casino in Poulsbo, Paige was stuck babysitting her younger brother in the Wilsons’ home on Beach Drive in Port Orchard. Foamy water curled and smacked against a stone bulkhead as she watched a ferry go to Bremerton. It wasn’t the last boat of the night, but she was sure it was full of people who’d been out partying in Seattle. They were the lucky ones. They understood that the world was a bigger place than Kitsap County.

Paige turned off the floodlights that illuminated the thin edge of the shore. Whenever her parents went out to gamble, it was a sure bet they’d be home very, very late. If she didn’t have to watch her little brother, Kerry, she could slip away and party with the rest of her friends. It didn’t seem fair. She’d done everything right. Good grades. No drugs. And a beauty queen to boot. Yet, as she lay on the couch with HBO flickering over the flat-screen TV, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d end up stuck in Port Zero for the rest of her life.

She popped on her Facebook account and posted some comments on her friend’s “wall.”

Later, her phone pinged with a text message from a number she did not recognize.

Paige answered with the speed of a practiced teenage two-thumbed texter.

He answered,
CALL ME
.

I M NOT STUPID
, she texted back.

The HBO special she was watching about life in a house of prostitution concluded, and Paige went off to bed. As she pulled up the slippery satin duvet, she heard the ping of her cell phone once more.

It was a new text from the supposed modeling agent:

She texted:

Paige slipped under the covers. It was after 1
A.M
., and the house was deadly quiet. She’d checked on Kerry, and he was asleep, butt up in the air. The cat was out for the night. The dishwasher had cycled. It was the same as any other Friday night. She wondered if every other Friday night for the rest of her life would be the same. Sure, she’d get older. She’d go out on her own. She figured that her Fathoms scholarship would get her nothing more than a quarter at Olympic Community College in Bremerton. The only way out of the town was either to get pregnant by a boy whose family had money or something totally unexpected taking place.

She picked up her cell phone and pushed the call feature for the number of the man who had offered her what she hoped was her golden opportunity.

A ticket out of town.

Paige didn’t tell anyone about the contact with the agent. She didn’t want to hear anyone say that the Fathoms o’ Fun crown had caused brain damage. She remembered what a boy at South Kitsap had posted on Facebook when she won the pageant:

She would prove them wrong. All of them.

Melody Castile looked one last time at the home page that she and her husband had put up with images of young, pretty women they’d pirated from the Internet. She knew it was as easy to erase as it had been to create. A gallery of women with pearly smiles, streaked hair, and big dreams had been search-and-click-easy to find. It was a hidden site, the kind that could only be found if a link was provided. No search engines picked it up. Password protected and accessed by approved readers, it was a phantom Web site. A trap.

Melody hit the delete button, and Dantastic Models was no more.

Although no one knew it, neither was Paige Wilson.

The Poplars Motel was a few blocks south of the Kitsap Mall in Silverdale. If there had been any poplars at one time, they’d been replaced by a rotating assortment of the kinds of businesses that populate strip malls off major thoroughfares: teriyaki huts, copy centers, bridal boutiques, and the like. Paige Wilson had heard of casting calls taking place in motel and hotel rooms, so she thought nothing of the request to meet at one. She’d talked to the woman who ran Dan Prendergast’s agency, Mercedes, and she indicated that Dan was based in Oxnard, California, and would be in the Kitsap area only for two days.

“Dan saw your photo on the
Lighthouse
Web site,” she said. “Always looking for fresh faces.”

“I was a little concerned,” she said, “but I went to your site and saw that he represented a lot of different girls.”

“Oh, yes. One of our girls might be on
America’s Next Top Model
next season,” she said.

Mercedes asked if she’d be coming with her parents or a chaperone. “No worries if you do,” Mercedes said. “Just, sometimes they get in the way. Good intentions can ruin things. Not everyone understands the process. No nudity, of course, but some of the shots will be slightly provocative. Wholesome but sexy.”

Paige understood where Mercedes was coming from. She felt Queen Mother Maggie Thompson would put a halt to things before they got started, saying that modeling was not in keeping with the Fathoms image. Her parents, on the other hand, would tell her to get her head out of the clouds and focus on reality.

Maybe a job at Wal-Mart?

“Bring your laptop,” Mercedes said. “That way we can download some test shots right away.”

Paige played the conversation over in her head Sunday afternoon as she pulled her red beater Datsun into the parking lot of the Poplars. There was no risk. Mercedes sounded so nice. At the worst, she’d get some test shots that she could upload on her Facebook when she got home.

“Paige?” a voice called out as she emerged from her car.

“Yes?”

“I’m Mercedes. Dan’s running late. He’s at Red Robin having lunch. We’re supposed to go meet him there.”

Paige started for her car.

“We can take mine,” Mercedes said. “We’re coming back here anyway to take test photos.”

Paige looked admiringly at the silver yin-and-yang necklace that hung from Mercedes’s neck.

“It’s special, isn’t it?” Mercedes smiled.

Paige reached over and touched it. “I’m a silver girl too,” she said.

“My husband bought it for me. Handmade. I just love the things he does for me.”

“You’re lucky,” Paige said.

“We all are,” she said, not meaning a word of it. “Lucky as can be.”

Paige Wilson craned her slender neck. “Hey, I think you missed the entrance to the Red Robin,” she said.

“Oh, dear,” Mercedes said. “I’ll turn around up ahead.”

Paige shrugged. “No problem.”

The car pulled into an office park that had been built to resemble the feed silos of a farm and circled around the empty buildings.

Paige crinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

“Just a second,” Mercedes said.

From behind the passenger seat, a hairy hand with a chloroform-soaked cloth came at her.

There was no struggle.

With the exception of Midnight Cassava, there hadn’t been much of a struggle with any of them. Celesta had fought a little. Skye had fallen into darkness with the second breath. Midnight had put up a tough-chick fight by the elevator. That had been messy. Carol had slumped like a sack of flour to her garage floor. And now Paige Wilson looked like she’d fallen asleep after a long car trip.

Melody turned in her husband’s direction as he returned the cloth he’d used to subdue Paige to a Ziploc bag. He was grinning, and she knew she’d pleased him. Still, she had to ask anyway. His approval meant everything.

“Are we good, babe?”

“Always. Let’s go back to her car. You can drive it home. I’ll take her.”

Kendall Stark smoothed out the wrinkles in the pale blue blanket that enveloped Cody as she tucked him in. The blanket’s edges were frayed, and she noticed how Steven had repaired it with iron-on batting tape. She wondered when he’d done that. She wondered if the case that was ripping her apart had stolen other small moments of family life that she’d never even known about. All she could think about was the Cutter. Her mind was swirling with the thoughts of the case, the missteps she’d made, the anguish she’d been unable to lessen. As her son’s sleepy eyes began to shut, she thought about his innocence—and the innocence of those who’d died at the hands of the serial killer. He was unaware of the evil of the world. That was, she thought, a beautiful thing.

The one gift that autism had given him. The only gift.

With Cody asleep, Kendall kissed his warm forehead and headed toward the door. The evenings always went like that. Her phone buzzed, and she ignored it.

Serenity snapped her phone shut. In a way, she was relieved that Detective Stark hadn’t answered. She’d make up an excuse if Detective Stark asked her later why she’d called. In the split second it took for her to push her speed-dial and get the detective’s voice mail, she’d begrudgingly found herself sliding down a slippery slope.

She’d never forgive herself for doing so.

The odd voice who’d called her moments before had said only sixteen words:

I’m going to pick up your little beauty queen and take her for a test ride.

It was a threat. And a chillingly specific one at that.

March 29, 7 p.m.
Port Orchard

Deana Wilson was fuming in her granite slab kitchen. She and Brent, her land-use-planner husband, had dinner plans at the Boat Shed in Bremerton, and Paige was nowhere to be found. Deana had received a text message from her daughter the day before, indicating she’d be spending Sunday with a girlfriend, then going off to school the next morning.

At forty-two, Deana was a gorgeous woman with a sophisticated bob haircut and teeth so white, they glowed in the dark. Her beauty had been passed on to her daughter. Thankfully, for Paige, not her self-centered tendencies.

You can be so thoughtless, Paige!
Deana thought as she paced the cream and sand living room.
You should have been home hours ago!

She called a number of Paige’s girlfriends, but no one had a clue where the teenager was. Next she took a seat on a kitchen bar stool, looked out at the rippling wake of a passing ferry, and dialed Maggie Thompson. Deana told her that Paige hadn’t come home from school and how she’d repeatedly tried her cell, but there had been no answer.

“I’m sorry, Maggie, I’ve checked the calendar, and I don’t see any Fathoms event for today.”

“We have one scheduled for Olalla Elementary a week from Monday,” Maggie said. “That’s up next. Nothing today.”

“I have that one marked down,” Deana said, looking at the Currier & Ives calendar that hung by the corn-yellow wall phone that Brent had never got around to taking out when the family went cellular. Deana made a mental note to remind him to take care of it. A phone was not a kitchen accessory unless it was a charming antique. A corn-yellow wall-mounted Princess phone missed that mark by a mile.

“Did you try Danica and Taylor-Marie?” Maggie said, referring to the two Fathoms princesses. Danica Moses had been the batik artist, and Taylor-Marie Ferguson had read the haikus.

“Yes, I called them first. They have no idea where she is.” For the first time Deana let a tone of worry enter the conversation. “Maggie, they told me that they didn’t see her in school today.”

“Don’t fret. I’m sure she’s all right. I’ve worked with a lot of these girls, and they can get pretty touchy. It isn’t easy being a queen, you know.”

It was a not-so-sly reference to the fact that Maggie had once held the title herself.

“I know,” Deana said. “But honestly, that girl can be so insensitive. She’s so selfish.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”

Maggie sighed into the phone. “Yes, I do. Not as bad as 2003, but our Queen Paige is giving us a moment or two.”

Deana Wilson thanked Maggie and hung up.

Queen or not, when she gets home, Paige is going to get it,
she thought.

An hour later Brent came home and immediately dialed the Port Orchard Police.

“You know something, Deana?” Brent said, while shaking his head as they waited to give a description of their missing daughter. “If she’s run away, I’m going to blame you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

Brent couldn’t stop himself. “If there’s a more self-centered mother on the planet, I haven’t seen any evidence of it. Just so you know.”

Deana averted her gaze.

A twinge of shame with a capsule dose of reality?

She didn’t say a word.

Kendall carried her phone away from the sofa where she, Steven, and Cody had been curled up, munching buttered popcorn and watching a DVD. She hated the intrusion of a phone call, but it was urgent and it was Josh.

“Heads up on a missing girl,” he said.

She slowly let the air leak out of her lungs as she got up and walked to the privacy of the kitchen. “Oh no. Tell me.”

“This year’s Fathoms queen, Paige Wilson. Parents don’t know if she ran away or what. Port Orchard Police are working it but want an assist.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Sunday,” she said.

“Right. That’s what
I
thought.”

“Nothing for us tonight. But tomorrow, first thing, we can give the Port Orchard guys a hand.”

Kendall went back to the TV, and Cody took his place in her lap.

“Everything all right?” Steven asked, knowing by the look on her face it wasn’t.

“We don’t know. Might be looking at another victim.”

Steven showed his concern by patting her hand.

“Jesus, babe,” he said softly.

She nodded and put her fingers to her lips. She didn’t want to talk about it just then. It was all she
could
think about, though. Whatever was showing on the TV was invisible to her.

If Paige Wilson had been taken by the Cutter, her nightmare had only just begun.

It beckoned. The tiny tear in the aluminum foil over the window was an invitation to do what he’d been told
never
to do. It took about thirty seconds to decide to once more break one of the biggest family rules. Max Castile wasn’t tall enough to see through that window without a boost, but he was smart enough to roll the wagon his father had him use to haul wood next to the mobile so he could step up to see what was making those noises.

To see for sure what he imagined was going on inside the mobile.

Max climbed up onto the wagon. It teetered as its wheels sank into the damp soil. He squinted. Getting a good look wasn’t easy. It was frustrating. It was like trying to line a thread through the eye of a tiny needle. He moved his head from left to right to try to capture what it was. He could make out his father’s beefy frame, naked save for a black hood over his head. Tattoos from his tour with the Navy, an anchor and a dagger that curled around his shoulder, were shiny with sweat. Seeing his dad like that seemed so wrong; he averted his eyes for a second. He could make out another leg, also naked, but he could not see who it belonged to.

“No,” came a muffled whimper.

Max just stared, his eyes glued to the fragments of flesh he could see move in and out of the view through the slit in the foil.

They looked like the menacing figures on the magazines he’d seen in the Navy footlocker.

Max twisted his neck and pressed his face against the glass, looking at the figure on the mattress. His heart rate quickened as the boy processed what he was seeing. He climbed off the wagon and went toward the house.