Текст книги "Stranded"
Автор книги: Alex Kava
Соавторы: Alex Kava,Alex Kava
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
CHAPTER 17
Creed snapped a fresh cylinder of UDAP pepper spray onto his belt. He left his revolver in its case under his seat.
“Come on, Grace,” he said to the dog as he grabbed her leash and stepped out of the Jeep.
In seconds they were hurrying up a path, a shortcut that took them around the rest area’s bathrooms and welcome center and gave them a straight shot to the other parking lot, where semi-trailers filled the slots.
Grace understood they were on a mission. She kept a steady pace beside him, sniffing the air and looking up at him for instruction.
The man and the little girl had been walking slowly but soon they’d be at their destination, an eighteen-wheeler at the corner of the parking lot. The truck’s amber running lights lit up the length of the trailer. The cab’s engine had been left humming. Creed saw motion inside behind the windshield. There would be two of them he’d have to contend with. His fingers instinctively reached inside his jacket and found the canister of pepper spray attached to his belt. He hoped he wouldn’t regret not bringing his gun.
From this close, Creed realized the little girl was crying. The man held her right hand but her left was at her face, wiping at her nose. And he was right—she wore only white socks. No shoes.
Creed’s pulse continued to race. There was no longer panic as much as urgency that pressed him and caused his heart to bang against his ribs.
Grace scampered alongside him, constantly looking up, then forward and back up for a signal from her master. Never once did she whine or hesitate. Even after she saw that they were headed toward a child Grace didn’t show any additional excitement. Somehow dogs always seemed to react differently to children. Grace remained focused on Creed.
He still wasn’t sure what he should look for. He didn’t know many children or spend time around them. His experience extended only to the memory of his sister and Hannah’s two boys, who were too young for Creed to compare to this girl. He guessed she was nine or ten. Maybe eleven, at the most. Brodie had been eleven. Yes, this girl looked about Brodie’s age. Was that it? Was that the only reason an alarm seemed to have gone off inside his head, inside his chest? Was it only that she reminded him of Brodie?
He was counting on Grace’s instincts.
As he approached, Creed tried to assess the man. He was Creed’s height but outweighed him by about a hundred pounds and none of it looked like fat.
Creed stood an inch over six feet, and had broad shoulders but a thin waist, long arms and legs—a lean swimmer’s build. Several years ago when Hannah declared their business solvent and making a steady profit, Creed had added an enclosed (heated and air-conditioned) Olympic-size swimming pool to their complex. It allowed him to include water rescue and water tracking on their list, but it also ensured his own physical health and mental sanity. Since he was a kid, swimming had been the one escape, the one retreat that he enjoyed. No, it was stronger than that. There was something about diving into water and feeling it surround his body that rejuvenated all of his senses. But Creed was well aware that swimming wasn’t exactly a sport that prepared him for a brawl.
“Excuse me, sir,” Creed said before he knew what he was going to say to the trucker.
The man stopped but glanced over his shoulder as if he thought Creed might be addressing someone else. Creed watched his eyes dart to Grace and there was something there that told Creed the man didn’t like dogs. Maybe was even fearful of them.
He looked younger than Creed originally thought. Probably no older than Creed, which meant late twenties. Thirty at the most.
“My dog loves kids,” Creed lied. “She’s been pulling on me to come see your little girl. I think she’s missing my daughter.”
He squatted down to pet Grace and in doing so he pointed to the little girl. Grace took the signal and started wagging, finally relieved to have some instruction. She focused her attention on the little girl, leaning toward her and sniffing.
“See, she’s smiling already,” Creed said, only this time he said it to the little girl, who was staring at Grace in awe. And the little girl was smiling, too.
Creed stayed on his haunches next to Grace and watched the man. From this angle he appeared less threatening but also from this angle if he shot the man in the face with the pepper spray he would be shooting upward and miss getting any on the little girl’s face. As he kept a hand on Grace he kept his other tucked inside his jacket, fingers ready on the canister.
“Can I pet her, Daddy?”
Creed didn’t need to know much about kids to hear the little girl’s voice was genuine. Nothing sounded forced, including calling the man Daddy. But the man still seemed wary of Grace. Was it just dogs or was there something else he was hiding?
Before Creed could figure it out he heard the truck’s cab door open and slam behind him. He stayed in position but his nerves were firing, his fingers itching.
“Bonnie loves puppy dogs, don’t you, sweetie,” a woman said.
Creed glanced back to see her.
The young woman came over. She was in jeans and a denim jacket.
“Is it okay for her to pet your dog?” she asked Creed.
“Absolutely.”
The woman waved the little girl over and she started to rush. “Slow down. Don’t spook her. And be gentle. Like this.”
The woman gave Grace her hand for Grace to sniff it, waiting for permission. Then she stroked Grace’s back. The little girl mirrored the woman’s gestures, giggling when she finally touched Grace.
“Bonnie adores dogs,” she said to Creed.
“No school this week?” Creed asked casually.
“Spring break. We thought it would be a treat to join Rodney. Show Bonnie what it is he does all week when he’s away.”
The man was actually smiling now, watching the little girl.
“See Rodney, just because you’re scared of dogs—”
“I’m not scared.”
“He had a dog attack him when he was a little boy, so he doesn’t trust them.” Then to her husband, she said, “I can’t believe you took her to the bathroom without putting her shoes on.”
“She didn’t want them on, then she was crying that she was getting her socks dirty.”
The more the couple bickered, the more Creed relaxed.
They sounded like a normal family.
CHAPTER 18
He slipped two receipts into the back-cover pocket of his log book, then turned to a new page and jotted down:
Tuesday, March 19
10:47 p.m.
Pilot Plaza #354, Sioux City, IA
He had just filled his gas tank and had done a quick maintenance check. He was ready to head out on the road again. He was still flying high on adrenaline. Not only had he been able to hear what everyone thought about his handiwork back at the farm, but he had also been able to finally meet Maggie O’Dell face-to-face.
Magpie: even more exquisite up close
He’d even bought her a beer … well, a round of beers for all of them. But it gave him surprising pleasure to watch her drink it. He cataloged the details now on the flip page of his log book:
Sam Adams lager
He liked that she waved off a frosted mug, choosing to sip directly from the bottle. He took note of what and how she ordered her food, too, adding to his page:
Cheeseburger, medium-well
cheddar cheese, bacon, extra pickles
side of fries (lots of ketchup)
She thanked the waitress whenever she brought Maggie something, taking the time to notice that her name was Rita and using it, glancing up and making eye contact. No one else paid attention to the woman as she served them, reaching over and around again and again all evening long.
He saw that Maggie left her a nice tip, too, even though someone else had picked up the tab. He should have been quicker. He could have bought her meal, too, but someone beat him to it and he didn’t want to make a fuss.
Until today he had observed Agent Margaret O’Dell only from a distance, but he felt like he’d known her for years. From the first time he saw her he realized they were kindred spirits. And no, he wasn’t easily attracted to pretty women. It took more than a pretty face to grab his attention these days. Besides, he was a professional, just like Maggie.
Last month he had watched her at a crime scene, a warehouse in D.C. that had been gutted by fire. He had also watched the asshole who set it on fire. Same asshole who later torched Maggie’s house. If he had seen him doing it, the guy would be maggot food right now. He never really understood the fascination with fire.
The only reason he had been at that warehouse that night was because he was dumping a body in the alley. Sometimes he liked to do that. Then stick around so he could be there when people discovered his handiwork. Once he even called 911 to report a body so he could observe the first responders. It wasn’t just to get off on it like some stupid sons of bitches. He actually learned a lot by watching the investigators, getting close enough to overhear their conversations and see what they collected.
There had been times like tonight when he frequented cop bars, just to listen to them. Buy them a few drinks and they started talking about all sorts of things. The time he spent hanging around cops and watching and listening had proven invaluable. It helped him change things up, perfect his methods, alternate patterns. He liked new challenges.
When he first saw Maggie—back at that D.C. crime scene—he could tell she liked challenges, too. Watching a CNN profile on her he’d learned that her mother sometimes called her “magpie” and that’s when he knew they were kindred spirits. His own mother had often spoken of the magpie bird and considered it a good omen. It was the only bird that refused to go aboard Noah’s Ark and instead perched on the roof. So spirited, just like him. Curious and constantly questioning, searching, learning, testing. What would it be like to take on a magpie?
That’s why he left the map for her. That’s why he included the socks—though he really hated repeating such an obvious pattern. He wanted her to find him so he could share his handiwork with her. Challenge her. See what she was made of. Poke and prod and prepare her for what he had planned. He hoped she wouldn’t disappoint him.
He saw Lily crossing the parking lot, her hair still a tangled mess, her handbag making her slouch as she walked. What a pathetic creature. She had knocked on almost all of the truckers’ cabs, even daring to knock on one that had a sign posted on the windshield: NO LOT LIZARDS! She was headed back to the main building of the truck plaza.
He started his engine. He’d offer her a ride. She’d recognize him from the farm and not give it a second thought. If she didn’t want a ride, he’d offer her twenty bucks to get in, though he didn’t want her touching him. Her sunken cheeks and rat-nest hair disgusted him. Already he was thinking it wouldn’t be much of a challenge to kill her. That’s why he didn’t bother with women like her. He didn’t imagine she was capable of putting up a good fight, let alone the psychological interplay he so enjoyed. She’d probably welcome death. He hated that kind of attitude. But he needed to look at this as a necessity.
He grabbed the ball cap he had taken from the bar and grill. He sniffed the inside, filling his lungs with the scent of Maggie’s hair. He slipped it on and immediately liked how close it made him feel to her.
Then he pulled up next to the lot lizard and rolled down his window.
CHAPTER 19
Maggie had gotten used to the interstate hotels and motels. Most of them offered the basics, some added free Internet service. Maggie didn’t care as long as the room was clean. Tully’s eyes lit up—despite not being hungry enough to finish his burger—when he saw a sign in the lobby for a free continental breakfast that the Super 8 Hotel called the SuperStart.
Tully hadn’t been able to reserve two rooms close to each other. And from the looks of the back parking lot it was no wonder. It was already packed with trucks and buses, a variety of sizes from eighteen-wheelers to cargo vans and service panel trucks. Earlier at the bar and grill their friendly lesson from the truckers who had joined them included a list of what truckers hauled. Maggie saw that this hotel parking lot displayed just some of those goods, from timber to automobiles. And obviously many truckers didn’t sleep in their trucks back at the truck plaza.
Tully gave her the room on the third floor and took the one on the first. He hadn’t been feeling good, so she was surprised to have him knocking on her door less than twenty minutes after she had gotten to her room. She had already peeled off her muddy clothes and was wearing only a nightshirt and panties. She opened the door a crack, hoping he’d just forgotten to tell her something—until she saw his face. He looked worried.
“Is Gwen okay?” she asked.
“I haven’t talked to her tonight, but I’m sure she’s fine. Were you already in bed?” His eyes fell to her bare legs as if he hadn’t considered that possibility.
“Not yet, but close. Hold on a minute.”
She closed the door and went to her overnight case where she had left it on the second double bed. She dug out a pair of jeans and pulled them on. Skipped socks and shoes. She started for the door again and stopped, contemplating a bra. The nightshirt was mid-thigh length and baggy, a Packers jersey. Nothing revealing or suggestive. Besides, it was Tully. She opened the door.
This time he came in without hesitating. He had his cell phone in one hand and a notepad in the other. A quick glance and she could see that it was a Super 8 notepad. He’d already been on the phone. The results weren’t just noteworthy, they had Tully wired.
“You found something out?”
“Janet, the CSU tech, is starting to process the contents of the garbage bag.”
He paced to the other side of the room, pulled the curtain enough to peek out. Maggie had already checked out the back parking lot below. Tully wasn’t interested in anything out the window. His nervous energy had him on edge and the room was too small. Maggie sat on the corner of the bed farthest away.
“He left the woman’s driver’s license inside the bag,” Tully said. “The body’s mutilated, not to mention decapitated, but the son of a bitch left the victim’s driver’s license for us.”
“That is weird. He already left us the orange socks and the receipt.”
“Oh, that’s not the weird part. Wendi Conroy disappeared last month. Her car was found at a rest area off I-95. In Virginia.” He paused. “A rest area just south of Dale City.”
He turned from the window and met her eyes, waiting for her reaction. They both knew that rest area. It was less than five miles away from her house—or rather what was left of her house—in Newburgh Heights, Virginia.
“This is Albert Stucky all over again,” Tully said.
“It’s not like Stucky.” Maggie hated that the mention of his name could still make her skin crawl. She had crossed her arms and was rubbing them before she even realized it. “I don’t know a Wendi Conroy. And I didn’t know Gloria Dobson or Zach Lester.”
Albert Stucky had targeted women Maggie had come in contact with: a girl who had delivered a pizza, a waitress, her real estate agent. Of those he killed, he left a piece of them in takeout containers usually someplace obvious to be easily found and to shock the finder.
“This is not like Stucky,” Maggie repeated, almost as if she needed to convince herself. Then wanting Tully to lighten up, she added, “He hasn’t left us any takeout containers.”
“No, just garbage bags and a couple of mutilated bodies.”
He started pacing the narrow lane between the beds and the TV stand, from the window to the door.
“When he left you the map I thought it was just because he saw you on that CNN profile and he knew that you were working the arsons along with the Dobson case. It made as much sense as his bizarre scavenger hunt makes. But that’s not it.” He stopped mid-stride and looked at her. “He’s obsessed with you. Just like Stucky.”
“Stucky wanted to hurt me.”
“How do we know this guy doesn’t want to hurt you?”
“Because he’s had plenty of opportunities.” She thought about that for a second or two. The whole time they’d been searching for this killer she’d never once felt threatened. “It seems like he’s more interested in showing us his handiwork than he is in hurting either of us. Maybe he wants to be caught.”
“He left you the map about the same time that he took Wendi Conroy from that rest area. A rest area that’s five miles away from your house. In Virginia. But instead of leaving her body somewhere close by, he brought her twelve hundred miles to Iowa to bury her so she’d be here for you to find. Oh, and on the way he stopped and bought a pair of orange socks to put on her and left the receipt for you to find, too. In a separate bag with the woman’s head. Does that sound like a guy who wants to be caught?”
Tully was right. Both of them had studied and experienced killers who had played “catch me if you can.”
“Now that you put it that way,” she said, “no, it doesn’t. It sounds like a killer who’s showing off.”
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gwen stumbled in the dark to find her ringing cell phone. Usually she left it on her nightstand. She didn’t stop to put on a light in her living room as she hurried from her bed and her deep sleep.
“This is Gwen Patterson.”
“I woke you. I’m sorry.”
It was Maggie.
“Is everything okay? Is R.J. okay?”
“He’s fine. Everything’s fine. I forgot we’re an hour behind you. I can call back in the morning.”
“No, this is okay. I’m awake.”
She ran a hand through her tangled hair and snapped on a lamp. She looked to the clock on the mantel. It was after midnight. She’d been asleep for only a half hour but it felt like half the night. She rubbed at her eyes and sank into a leather recliner.
“Where are you two tonight?”
“Just outside of Sioux City, Iowa. We found it.”
Gwen sat up. Maggie didn’t need to explain what “it” was.
“A farm behind an interstate rest area,” Maggie continued. “There’s a lot of ground to cover. Some of it’s wooded and along a river. I’m not even sure if we can discount the fields and pastures. There’re literally hundreds of acres that he’s had access to. The perfect hideaway. Several abandoned buildings and a vacant farmhouse to crash in as long as he avoided the meth-using lot lizard.”
“The meth-using what?”
“Prostitute. Lot lizard is what the truckers call them. We found her crashing inside the farmhouse. Long story.”
Gwen could hear the exhaustion in her friend’s voice.
“Her name’s Lily. Tully and I were hoping she might have seen something. But no such luck. At least, not that she can remember right now.”
“Lily the lot lizard.”
“The body we found was in a black plastic garbage bag,” Maggie continued. “Well, most of it. The head was in a separate bag, a smaller one close by. And he left us another puzzle piece to our scavenger hunt.”
Gwen felt nauseated at the mention of the head. The last time she had worked on a homicide case, it also involved a decapitated victim. The victim was someone Gwen knew—a receptionist who had worked in her office.
Gwen was beginning to second-guess joining this task force. She had a successful practice listening to the District’s elite—generals and politicos and their wives or husbands rehashing their emotional instabilities, their addictions, and their dysfunctional childhoods. Sometimes it wore her down but rarely did it scare or nauseate her. Did she really want to delve back into criminal behavior? Sort through its psychotic motives and view their bloody aftermath? Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for this anymore.
“Gwen?”
She suddenly realized she hadn’t heard the last of what Maggie had said.
“Gwen, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Then because she knew Maggie would worry, she added, “I guess maybe I’m not quite as awake as I thought. What were you saying? He left you something?”
“He used the same retailer’s bag where he bought the orange socks. Even left the receipt for us.”
She realized she had missed more than she thought.
“Orange socks?” Gwen asked.
“The victim’s wearing orange socks. I knew they looked too new. We think the killer bought them and put them on the corpse before he stuffed her in the garbage bag and buried her. I’m sure the socks are simply for our benefit. Like I said, another puzzle piece for the scavenger hunt.”
Gwen stood and walked around her Georgetown condo now, turning on more lights. As she passed the front door she checked the locks. Working these cases brought on a whole slew of obsessive-compulsive habits. Oh sure, she double-checked security, but suddenly she wanted the room filled with light. She wanted the shadows and dark corners gone.
She opened the refrigerator. Grabbed a bottle of water. Twisted off the cap with too much urgency and swigged almost half the bottle while Maggie told her about the significance of the orange socks.
“Tully’s been talking to Agent Antonio Alonzo. Have you met him yet?”
“We had a long meeting today. He’s impressive.”
“He’s a data whiz. He can put together information in a remarkably short amount of time.” Maggie paused before continuing. “I remembered a recent case that involved orange socks. Last month. In Virginia. They discovered a woman’s remains that had been stuffed in a culvert. She had gone missing more than a year ago and no one had found her. The culvert was on a remote gravel road just off the interstate.”
“A year? How did they find her?”
“A prisoner tipped off a television news reporter.”
“Possibly the killer?”
“No, this guy’s in for arson,” Maggie said. “As far as Agent Alonzo can tell, Otis P. Dodd hasn’t killed anyone. In fact, it sounds like he’s gone out of his way to not kill. He’s in prison for setting more than thirty fires across Virginia. The last one was a retirement home and yet he managed to do it without any of the residents getting hurt.”
“Okay. If he’s been in prison how did he know about the woman in the culvert?”
“According to Alonzo, Otis claims he had an interesting evening throwing back a few too many drinks with a guy who confessed to murdering a woman. He told the television crew that the conversation happened before Otis got arrested and went to prison.”
“And he was convincing enough for them to search?”
“Sounds like they didn’t need to search too hard. Otis was able to tell them exactly where to look.”
“Coincidence?”
“Otis also said the guy left her in orange socks. Not exactly something he could take a wild guess at.”
Gwen wandered back to her bedroom, snatched a robe and pulled it on, suddenly chilled.
Great.
She was still nauseated and now her skin felt clammy and cold. The refrigerated water certainly didn’t help. She needed hot tea instead. Maybe with a splash of bourbon in it.
“So Otis may have met the highway killer. Well, this is definitely something the task force needs to look at,” she told Maggie.
“I’m glad you agree. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep the orange socks out of the news. Too many helpers on the site saw them. So we need to move quickly on this. I already talked to Kunze and he’s arranging the interview for tomorrow. I’d do it myself but I can’t get back yet. Tully and I are meeting a canine cadaver team tomorrow at the farm.”
“Wait a minute. An interview? What exactly is it that Kunze is arranging?”
“For you to interview Otis P. Dodd.”
“Me?”
“I can’t think of anyone who’d do a better job.”
Gwen caught a glimpse of herself in her bedroom mirror. Her pink fleece robe was cinched tight. Her strawberry blond hair had a tangled knot on one side and flat bedhead on the other. She had dribbled water down her chin and missed a spot when she had wiped at it.
Oh, yes, she definitely looked like the person to take on a serial arsonist who palled around with a slice-and-dice killer.
