They fell into a comfortable silence. Ty heard night sounds she was used to—crickets chirping, the movement of small animals in the undergrowth, the gentle lapping of the water against her dock, the rustling of tree leaves in the night breeze, sounds that soothed and comforted.
Sala took another drink of his beer. His throat still felt razor dry. No, don’t think about those hours in the closet. Put it behind you. Focus, like Savich said. The headache is fine. It means you’re alive.
Ty said, “I like the bandage over your forehead. Looks rakish, like a badass pirate.”
He lightly touched a fingertip to the large adhesive bandage. “Dr. Staunton is good. I didn’t feel a thing when she stitched me up.” He paused, then said, “I can’t stop thinking about this. Why didn’t Octavia recognize his voice?”
“You weren’t conscious for very long. What, a minute or two? She probably did recognize him, once they were on the lake.” Ty sipped her beer. “I wonder if his girlfriend was with him when he came to your cabin.”
“I don’t know. I never saw her, and forensics couldn’t help us. They only found the window he broke in through, some of my blood on the floor, and our smashed cell phones.”
Ty said, “They must have used the Volvo to get you to Gatewood and then dumped it somewhere in the woods. We were lucky to find you after only a day.”
She smacked her head. “What a dummy. That toilet paper rod means the Gatewood plumbing still worked. And to use the toilet means they had to have the water turned on, right?”
“Maybe, or they could have simply brought in buckets of lake water to flush the toilet.” He watched her pull her cell out of her breast pocket, then sigh and put it back.
“I forgot. It’s Saturday night. At best I’d get a maintenance worker. On Monday, we’ll find out. Fake name, but it’ll be something.”
Sala said, “Maybe they turned the water on themselves, and we’ll find prints on the main water valve.”
“Good thought.”
He grinned at her. He felt good, but only for an instant, then a slap of guilt swamped him and he fell silent, rolling the beer between his palms. “Thanks for letting me stay here with you, Chief. I appreciate it.”
“You know Dr. Staunton said you’ve had a concussion, and she ordered you to rest. I couldn’t have you driving back and forth on the highway, and I doubt there are any vacancies in town at all. Besides, I can keep an eye on you this way, make sure you’re all right. So don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem.” Didn’t he realize that available rooms or no, she’d have insisted he stay with her? No way would she let him be alone after what he’d been through. “Since you’re staying in my guest room and I put clean sheets on your bed, even plumped up your pillow, you should call me Ty.”
He nodded. “And since I’m sleeping on those clean sheets, call me Sala.”
She smiled, nodded.
“What does Ty stand for?”
“Don’t go there, too scary. Now, your name, it’s very unusual.”
“My dad’s responsible, at least that’s what my mom always swore when I’d come home from school with bloody knuckles and a black eye.” He paused, smiled again. “Never really bothered me, though. I really liked to mix it up when I was a kid. Never lost a fight after the age of five, when I learned not to mess with a third-grader. My dad was a marine, a real scrapper back in the day, so he taught me, my mama rolling her eyes in the background.” He paused. “My mom gave me lessons, too, she was a pretty dirty fighter herself. She grew up on Chicago’s South Side with three brothers.”
Ty sighed. “My mother went hysterical when I told her I was going to be a cop. She gave it her best shot to talk me out of it, but it was no use. Needless to say, my dad was all for it. He’s a captain in the Washington State Patrol. So why didn’t your parents change your name? Save the spillage of blood on all sides.”
He laughed. “Dad and Mom said I should be proud of my name, so I learned to fight.”
She gave him a huge grin, cracked her knuckles. “One of these days, we can see at the gym which of us is the dirtiest fighter, Mr. FBI.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.”
They fell silent, both looking out over the lake. Sala said after a while, “He has my Glock. It’s like missing a limb.”
That was a tough one because it was never supposed to happen. She said with no hesitation, “You’ll get it back.”
“You’re that certain we’ll get him?”
“He has no idea how close we are, no idea we probably have his fingerprints, and pretty soon we’re going to know his name. A couple more days and we’ll have both him and his girlfriend.”
Sala tapped his head, then thumped his fist to his chest. “I know that in my head, but not here, not in my heart, not yet.”
15
* * *
Ty couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be tied up and helpless in a closet no one would ever open, struggling to finally accept that you were going to die, all the while grieving for a woman you were close to and believed had been murdered. She reached over and touched his arm again, kept her voice calm. “I’m very sorry for what happened to Octavia and to you, Sala. It was a horrible thing to go through. I saw him murder Octavia on the lake, and that was bad enough. But the bottom line is we’ll catch him and find his girlfriend with him. There will be justice.”
Sala was tempted to dismiss what she’d said because he didn’t care about justice right then. What he really wanted to do was squeeze his hands around the killer’s neck and choke the life out of him. For Octavia and for himself. He said, “I wondered about his girlfriend when I was in the closet. That mad laugh—I wanted to see her face.” If he was honest with himself, Sala wanted to kill her, too.
“Try to let it go, Sala, at least for tonight.” She wondered where the two of them were that night. A hundred miles away? Believing they’d pulled everything off perfectly?
She pulled out a grin, gave a dramatic sigh. “That was a sigh of relief since nothing dramatic happened at the book festival today—well, other than the deal with Sherlock in the children’s tent. Whatever that was, thankfully none of the parents or kids seemed to realize anything had really happened.”
She looked at the few remaining lights across Lake Massey. “Some seven-plus thousand visitors to the festival are tucked in their beds now, maybe reading books they bought, talking about the authors they met. What happened to Octavia won’t be in the local paper until tomorrow. Like you, they can be happy they have clean sheets.”
Sala tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “We turned off our phones when we arrived, told our families not to bother to call or check in. I’m not ready to talk with her parents yet about what happened. Bless Mr. Maitland for dealing with her family and her boss.” He fell silent again, staring at nothing really, remembering, seeing stark images in his mind of Octavia’s face, the fear in her eyes that she might die. “I know you’re right—he took off the mask before he killed her, in case she hadn’t recognized him.”
“I imagine he did, otherwise he wouldn’t get his full quota of revenge. Octavia had to know who he was so she could fully appreciate how clever he is. I couldn’t tell if he was still wearing a stocking over his face on the lake. He was too far away.”
Sala looked at his bandaged wrists, scarcely felt the welts and bruises with the cream Dr. Staunton had smeared on. “No matter the time lag, months or years, it still surprises me Octavia didn’t recognize his voice right away. Octavia remembered how her termite exterminator talked, so why not him? Like I said, he had a Southern accent.” He swallowed. “But she was very frightened.”
“And fear can freeze you up. Maybe he disguised his voice, I don’t know.”
“I really like—liked—Octavia. She had guts, she was bright, and she really cared about helping people who couldn’t help themselves.”
“Which law firm was she with?”
“Jacobson, Wile, and Corman, in D.C. They’ll be served with a wa
rrant for their records of all the cases she was involved in. You know the lawyers are going to shout client confidentiality, no matter that one of their own was murdered. We’re talking court orders, delays—I mean, that’s what they all do, stall as long as they can to show their clients they tried. The bastards.”
“No disagreement from me.” She lightly patted his leg. “No more cramps?”
“No, I’m fine, good to go.” He looked back at the lake again, sitting perfectly still, and she knew what had happened to him, to them, was running on an endless loop. How long would it take for the experience to fade? A long time, Ty imagined. He’d known Octavia, slept with her, laughed with her. Ty couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. What Ty herself felt was wrung out and sad. She got to her feet. “It’s late. You ready to sleep?”
Sala rose to stand beside her, looking down at his bandaged wrists, not at her. “I guess I’m a coward, me the tough FBI agent, but I don’t want to close my eyes. I’ll see Octavia’s face. I’ll see that closet.”
She said matter-of-factly, “Tell you what, let’s haul a mattress and a couple of blankets and pillows out here. I’ve done it myself, and it’s a great way to get to sleep. You can look up at the stars, listen to the crickets, maybe drink another beer. I’ll drink another one with you.”
He really looked at her then, realized she was tall, at least five ten, nearly to his nose. The moonlight cast shadows on her face, but her eyes were clear and bright and compassionate. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Too bad I don’t have Lucky with me.”
“Lucky?”
“My cat. She’s a sweetheart. She’s pure black with big green eyes and she sleeps on my chest at night, purrs so loud the rhythm puts me right out. I had to leave her with my sister. My sister adores Lucky, so I’m wondering if she’ll want to come back home. It’s been a long time.”
“Lucky will race you back to your house, you’ll see. Where’d you get her?”
“I rescued her as a kitten, not even three pounds, found in an alley in Georgetown. Her first night, she tucked herself in around my neck, happy as a clam. And she’s been around my neck ever since.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Before Sala fell asleep thirty minutes later, he wasn’t thinking about his cat. He was thinking about that single forgotten toilet paper roll and praying the fingerprints on the rod weren’t from some local teenager who’d broken into the house and left it there.
16
* * *
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
SATURDAY NIGHT
Savich was sitting up in bed, pillows behind him, working on MAX. He looked up and forgot what he was doing. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Sherlock in those tiger-striped sleep boxers and flowy top, silhouetted by the bathroom light, her hair pulled up on top of her head in a riot of curls, her face scrubbed clean, looking about sixteen.
Sherlock paused a moment, cocked her head to one side, listening. “I can’t get used to the quiet. Not a single sleeping-kid snort, no little feet padding down the hall to say good night to us or crawl in between us after a nightmare.” She stopped cold and swallowed hard. “I thought I’d come to grips with what happened today at the book festival, that man trying to take Sean again.” She shook her head. “It scared me to death, Dillon. And I didn’t catch him. Again.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Come here.” He gathered her close, kissed the top of her head. “I should have been with you, shouldn’t have gone off with the chief of police.”
It snapped her back. “Then you wouldn’t have found Sala, so all in all, I’d say we were all lucky. You know it was the same man, Dillon. How did he know we’d be at the book festival?”
“Best guess, he followed us, or maybe hacked the car’s GPS or tracked our cell phones. Then he waited for his chance, waited until you were with Sean and Marty by yourself. But a chocolate bar? Seems like he didn’t think it through very well. He had to know you’d be watching for him, and you were.”
“Dillon, if he followed us there, then he could have followed us to your mom’s house.”
“Don’t worry. Senator Monroe is sleeping at Mom’s house for the duration, and so is one of his aides. Sean will never be alone.”
He closed down MAX and laid him on the bedside table, plugged into the charger next to their cell phones. “You know what I’m missing right now? Singing him his nightly country western song. He always wants another verse and he can’t ever stay awake for the last verse, even with his current favorite, ‘Elvis in the Chariot.’ ” He kissed her forehead, her nose, her ear. “Well, at least my mom’s a happy camper. Do you think she’s singing to him now about Elvis waving for the chariot to swoop down and fetch him up?”
“She doesn’t have to go that far, she’s the goddess of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.” She saw his smile, and for a moment, she felt one on her mouth as well, but soon it fell off. She felt her fear return, familiar to her now, always with her. Would he try again? When? Tonight Sean was safe, but what about tomorrow? Would he try to kidnap Sean from his day camp? Hard to imagine, everyone was alerted now.
They were both quiet a moment, then she whispered. “Octavia Ryan’s dead, and Sala’s got to be a mess. At least he’s staying with the chief. She’ll make sure he’s all right.”
Savich kept his voice calm, although he felt like hitting something. “I spoke briefly to Ty—Chief Christie. Concussion or not, I don’t think she’d have let Sala come back to Washington by himself. She’s a good woman, levelheaded, smart.” He remembered Detective Harry Anson in Seattle saying Ty was a bulldog. He knew to his gut now Anson was right. “Let it go for a little while, sweetheart. We should both try to let it go.”
But she was caught up in it. “Dillon, I still can’t get over that vision you had—the murderer coming back to the dock. And Sala hearing a girl’s mad laughter? Who was that? Maybe it’ll be her prints they found on that toilet paper rod.”
Savich wanted to distract her, distract himself. “All I can think about right now is getting you out of your tiger stripes.”
She tried to laugh and hiccupped.
“That’s a start.” He breathed in her light rose scent, saw a red curl work its way out of the high ponytail to curve around her face. His heart kicked up. She pulled the rubber band out of her hair and shook her head, ending up with a wild nimbus to halo her head. He couldn’t wait to run his fingers through the curls, feel them tickle his nose. She pushed him down on his back, leaned down to bite his neck, and kissed his chin. His mouth got the full treatment. He eased his hands beneath that tiger-striped top, loving the feel of her, but then his brain skipped again to the man who’d been in McGurk’s tent waving a chocolate bar at the children, the same man he knew had been in Sean’s bedroom Wednesday night. Turn it off, turn it off.
He felt her hair cascade over his face, her warm breath against his cheek. “You’re letting me down here, Dillon. I’m doing my part, giving you my all, but I can see your brain going a zillion miles an hour.” She tapped her fingers to his cheek. “Pay attention.” Her fingers glided over his belly, taking all the blood from his brain.
When his breathing finally calmed, Savich leaned up on his elbow, bent down, and kissed her mouth. He saw she was nearly out, and so he tucked her in close beside him, whispered against her cheek, “I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom tried to seduce Sean to the dark side. You know, promise to teach him how to drive, pay all his speeding tickets, to keep him with her.”
Sherlock mumbled something. He kissed her again and eased down beside her, her head on his shoulder. He heard her breathing even into sleep. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep himself.
He was walking into the master bedroom at Gatewood, only now it was a long, skinny room. He saw science fiction graffiti on the white walls, not people, but video game monsters. They writhed, their tentacles reached out to
him, trying to escape the wall to get to him, but he paid no attention, all his focus on the front window.
He looked out at an early morning patchwork fog over Lake Massey, though it didn’t really look like the lake. There were waves that pulsed and seemed to twist in on themselves, and he knew something scary was beneath the surface, something deadly, that gave no quarter. He saw a narrow raft glide out of the fog, a man standing on it, staring down at the pulsing waves, and he was smiling. He didn’t have an oar. The raft seemed to be moving on its own. It pulled in at a dock with parking slots all around it, and the man jumped out. He straightened, turned slowly, and looked up at Savich. He gave a rictus of a grin, pumped his fist, and yelled something, but Savich couldn’t make out the words. The man kept staring at him, that mad grin still on his face, and gave Savich a deep bow. Savich felt a sudden, bitter cold. Black shadows roiled out of the cold, coming closer and closer. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. Bony fingers slithered out of those shadows and stretched toward him, bone-white fingers that had come from the bottom of the lake. He heard an excited laugh—a girl’s laugh—high and vicious and manic, and the skeletal fingers reached for his throat, closed around his neck. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. In the distance he heard a girl shout, “Kill him! Kill him!”
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