By the time Decker got back upstairs, she’d returned to her desk and was staring at her computer screen.
“Missed me already, huh?”
“You should be so lucky.” She waved her phone. “Did Ash Keller try and get in touch with you, the last little while?”
He pulled out the burner phone he was currently using and checked it. “Not recently. Not since the thing with the ring.”
“You a rap artist now? ‘The Thing with the Ring’ sounds like Justin Bieber’s marriage album.”
He gave her a sour look. “Did you call me back to try and get me listening to hip-hop? Listen to Caught a Ghost or Death Cab for Cutie and then we’ll talk about good music.”
“Keller tried calling me about five minutes ago.”
“Tried?”
“It rang twice. I’ve been calling her back and keep getting a ‘Call Failed’ message. It doesn’t even go to voice mail.”
Decker frowned. People turned off phones, threw them away, lost them, broke SIM cards, and even burned them in backyard fire pits. Regardless of all that, calls that did not reach the recipient usually went immediately to voice mail. Failed calls typically occurred only when the caller was out of range of a cell tower, which Sanders clearly wasn’t.
“That’s weird.”
“No kidding. I know she had my burner, too, but I thought she was hot for you.”
“Maybe we were both mistaken.” He scratched his head. “The call fail is odd, but Keller does live rural. And there’s a storm blowing in. There some other reason you called me back?”
“Harry. Keller lives northeast of Airdrie. Big place. And anyway, rural doesn’t mean they’re all Fred Flintstones out there. And by the way, the storm’s blowing in from the west. Finally, crucially, winter storms don’t blow out cell towers.”
“Point taken… Points, I guess. What else?”
“Gates and Perry caught a murder a few hours ago. Neighbour heard a gunshot and phoned it in.”
“Yeah, I heard.” His frowned deepened. He’d been hoping it would be a quick clear that would leave him and Sanders able to remain focused on Herzog. “They need something?”
“They asked me to check a couple of things, but they’ve got enough guys over there.”
“So why call me back?”
“Patience, Harry. Let me sketch it out. Way this murder went? Guy named Paul Arcand apparently came home and surprised a burglar stealing a bunch of his fancy computers.”
Decker grimaced. It was sad but unfortunately not terribly unusual. “So what’s special?”
“Prelim photos of the scene.” Sanders tapped the computer screen.
Decker studied images of a man’s body splayed out on the floor. There were two gunshot wounds to his chest and one smack-dab in the middle of his forehead. “Killer looks more like a guy who’s done this before than any burglar.”
Sanders gave him a deadpan look. “No shit, Sherlock. Exactly what Perry and Gates thought. And get this, the guy had a safe room in his house—reinforced walls and door—he just never made it inside.”
“Fancy. Sounds more and more like a pro. What does that have to do with us?”
“Take a look at this one.” She scrolled down.
The view in this image was angled away from the body, toward a bulletin board above a desk. Most of the panel was empty, though squares of light and dark told the story of papers that had been tacked up upon the board in the past, delineated by lighter areas that had more exposure to the sun.
Only two papers remained clipped to the board. One was an advertisement for The Led Zep Experience, a cover band coming to Grey Eagle Casino. The other was a specifications printout for a high-end computer—hard drive, memory, SSD capacity, and such.
“So?” Decker said. Then he saw that the computer specs printout was tacked over several other papers. He pointed. “What’re those?”
“Maybe you are Sherlock. Or Watson on a good day, at least.” She tapped more keys and Decker was looking at close-ups of several newspaper clippings. “These were beneath the specs sheet.”
The first was the front page of the Calgary Sun. Decker was all too familiar with the headline—Clipped Finger Killing. The Herald’s front page was more understated—Hero Paramedic Caught in Gruesome Crime Scene. Another clipping proclaimed, Paramedic Saves Three from Predator.
Decker’s heart rate ticked up “Well isn’t that interesting.”
“Not as interesting as this.” Sanders scrolled down once more.
This clipping was considerably more yellowed, a decade old or more, if Decker was any judge. Missing Girl Found Alive – Perpetrators Sought. He scanned the article. “Sophie Arcand. Same name as the vic tonight. Why’s that familiar?”
“Ought to be familiar to an old guy like you.”
Decker ignored the slight. “Why am I thinking Edmonton?”
Sanders’s eyebrows rose. “Not bad. Not senile just yet, my man. Sophie Arcand was snatched off a downtown Edmonton street in 2003, missing for twenty-four hours before being found outside of town, raped multiple times. She was fourteen years old.”
“I remember now. She couldn’t identify her attackers. Assholes were never caught.”
Sanders nodded. “A few years later, she committed suicide. Her brother—this guy”—she tapped at the screen to indicate the murdered man, Arcand—“found her.”
“Sad story.” He frowned at the screen. “I can understand why he was interested in Ash.” He cleared his throat. “Keller, I mean.”
“Oh my. Ash. First name basis and all.” Before Decker could reply, Sanders carried on. “Think I called you back here just for a sad story?”
He shook his head. One way or another, every homicide was a sad story. “What else?”
“Arcand’s killer took a shitload of computers. Three laptops and two desktops, at least.” Decker knew better than to ask how Gates and Perry knew. There were always dust patterns and often cables left behind that told any experienced cop what was missing.
“Turns out Arcand’s a computer programmer extraordinaire,” Sanders continued. “He designs complex algorithms, built the AI software that runs Ottawa’s traffic grid.”
Decker felt the tickle that comes with suddenly understanding, with abruptly finding the crucial piece of a complex puzzle.
“The kind of guy that could hack into dispatch systems.”
Sanders nodded. “And the kind of guy who would hate child traffickers and pedophiles. Maybe Ash Keller showed him where to look.”
Decker gritted his teeth. “You think it was a hit?”
“Maybe,” Sanders said. “It’s weird—weirder that she tried to call me. I asked Beiseker RCMP to do a welfare check on her.”
Decker thought. “On Friday night and a snowstorm coming in? They’re going to be busy as shit.”
“With all of their ten members covering a thousand square miles? Yeah, you think? I was thinking I might take a run out there.”
“Why you? I could—”
“Didn’t sound like your last interaction ended too well. She didn’t expect you to be an asshole, did she?” Sanders gave him a sly smile. “But she already knows I am.”
“All right, I guess,” Decker said. “Might be she’ll be in the mood to listen to you more than me.”
“Isn’t everyone?” Her grin widened as she rose and grabbed her coat. “You’re going to owe me for checking up on your girlfriend though.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked down at the computer, the murder report. “I’ll dig into Herzog’s past a little further, try and find out what he was up to fifteen years ago, around the time period Sophie Arcand got taken.”
“All right.” She glanced at her watch. “Want me to update the boss?”
“I think Kline got all of four hours’ sleep in the last three days. Let’s see where this lands first. Probably nothing, after all.” Decker’s tone was sarcastic.
“Yeah, nothing.” Sanders arched an eyebrow at him and turned for the d
oor. “Keep in touch.” Then she was down the stairs and out into the night.
Decker looked out the window. In just the few minutes they’d been talking, the snow had thickened from a few flurries into a blizzard, falling fast and hard.
Seventy
0112 hrs
Keller woke shivering, lying on her bathroom floor with what felt like the worst hangover of her life. Her eyes were gummy and her legs were sticky with drying blood. Every muscle in her body ached and her cracked rib was burning as if someone was putting out a cigarette on her chest. It felt as though hours had passed, but she knew if she were waking at all, then it had only been a few minutes.
She rolled over and grabbed another syringe out of the drawer. Four to start and down one now, with the jumbo-sized dose she’d already given herself. Three left, each with two-milligram doses, along with a bunch of unopened multidose vials.
She took one of these, unsheathed the needle, and plunged it in the leg opposite the first injection site, wincing at the sharp sting as the drug flooded into her quadriceps. She was reminded that pain was good. Pain meant you were alive.
Narcan was safe enough to distribute to the public because it had few side effects and overdosing on it was virtually impossible. Trouble was, the drug was a little like Keller’s boyfriends. It didn’t stick around long. The human body was way better at metabolizing naloxone than narcotics. She was awake and alive now because the first dose of Narcan had done its work, but it would already be wearing off. The second dose would last maybe a half-hour. Then she’d need more.
Time to act, make decisions. And she knew already she was set to make ones that would likely fuck up the rest of her life.
What would make the most sense was to phone 9-1-1, wait for the cops, and do nothing else to disturb what was now a crime scene.
Not showering was also a good idea. Not leaving here was likewise one. Both would help establish her as an innocent victim who’d had no choice but to use deadly force to defend herself.
To summarize: stay, don’t shower, and try your phone again.
No, no, and no. Well, okay… try the phone.
She rose on unsteady feet, muscles protesting and sore all over, as if she’d been hit by a car. Her scalp was screaming where Cue-ball had grabbed her hair, a muscle in her right shoulder shot sharp daggers into her neck whenever she moved, and her right elbow felt loose, the arm below it mostly numb.
She stumbled back into the living room to see Cue-ball lying right where she’d left him, on his left side with a black, bloody hole in his head and staring sightlessly at her. The smell of blood and capsaicin hung in the air.
Shitfire. What a mess.
The narcotic in her system, beat back as it was by the naloxone, must still be exerting some influence on her because she thought she was handling all this far too calmly.
You’ve done enough crying the last few days. Later, maybe.
Groot must’ve heard her moving around the house because he started barking again, poor guy. But he’d have to wait a little longer. She took wide steps around Cue-ball’s corpse and the blood surrounding it to pick up her phone. 9-1-1.
Call Failed.
“Fuck.”
She slid the cellphone into her pocket. Cue-ball must’ve brought some kind of signal jammer. Keller had read about such things, mostly in terms of their military use. What a great way to make sure your intended victim couldn’t call for help, even if they saw you coming. It was probably in Cue-ball’s car, but she had no idea what jammers looked like or how big they were and she wasn’t going to waste time looking for one. She had other ideas about the best way to spend her time.
Robin was in trouble, and Keller might not have long to save her. Where?
Dead as he was, Cue-ball might yet be some help.
Back into the bathroom. She stripped off her clothes and showered, water steaming hot, burning Cue-ball’s blood off of her. Except the water wasn’t enough, no matter how close to scalding. She felt violated, dirty. She would’ve stood under lava if she could to wash him off her, but there were other things to do.
To the bedroom. She pulled on her uniform pants and a hoodie, making sure to hold on to the cellphone, then grabbed the bag of kibble that Groot loved and ran out into the yard. Snow was falling and the wind was cold against her wet skin. Groot yelped with wild canine joy as he followed, trying to slow her long enough to entice her into play, or at least lick her face, but she ran straight to the barn, spilled great gouts of kibble into a pile on the ground, and made sure he had plenty of water.
“Celebrate, boy.” She patted him on the head and was trembling suddenly, as if a fever was raging in her. Adrenalin fatigue, fear, fentanyl withdrawal—take your pick.
She closed the barn door and locked it, knowing her actions to be reminiscent of Lang’s just before she’d eaten the pills. By tomorrow, Atchison might be taking care of one more dog while she was in custody or dead.
Back in the house, she shoved the other syringes of naloxone into her thigh pockets along with more vials, four milligrams each. She figured she could risk at most fifteen minutes before taking another dose of the drug, less if she felt herself lapsing into euphoria; but she was operating out of bounds here. Naloxone was meant to bring severely overdosed people back to living, breathing consciousness, not propel those contaminated with toxic amounts out into the night when they should be in an emergency room.
Was she just fulfilling Philby’s judgment, dancing into Death’s path again? It would be something to discuss in her prison cell.
Ready to go, Keller bent over Cue-ball’s corpse and patted at the pockets on his right side. Regardless of dominant hand, both lefties and righties usually kept car keys in their right pocket. It meant their keys were in their right hand when they slid into the driver’s seat, ready to plug into the ignition. Cue-ball’s keys were in his right jacket pocket along with his wallet. Against her better judgment, she pulled it out too.
You don’t need to know his name, and you don’t need fingerprints on his shit.
But really? It was always going to be pretty clear that neither Captain America nor Iron Man had crashed into her home to kill this man. It was always and forever going to be rather apparent Keller had shot Cue-ball, or, as he was otherwise known…
Gavril Sechev.
It kind of sounded like a made-up name, but the driver’s license looked real and in the picture, the live Sechev looked just as he did in death, slack-jawed and irritated. Wouldn’t you put a decent picture of yourself into a fake license?
She dropped the wallet beside the corpse and tightened her grip on the keys, then stood and looked down at Sechev. Death had preserved the scowl on his face. There was a small cut on the back of his neck. Not acquired in her fight with him, she thought. He shaved his head.
Fuck him. Go. You’re wasting time.
Never again, though. Never again would he shave his head or face, or shower or read or eat or walk, or anything. She had taken that all away from him.
Like he was going to do to you. Are you feeling bad, you idiot? Go.
She had a sudden urge to spit on the dead man. Halfway because he’d tried to murder her, and halfway because he’d made her kill him instead.
“Asshole.”
She stepped out into the night, looking back and forth as she pressed the Lock symbol on Sechev’s keyfob. Once, twice…
An answering beep came from behind the stand of mountain ash trees at the edge of her property, where her driveway met the road. She pressed again and was rewarded with a beep and flash of lights from the car, and she jogged toward it, watching for other vehicles but seeing nothing.
Overhead, clouds were painting the night sky in roiling greys and the snow was becoming thicker. The flakes seemed to glow warmly in the dim light, and Keller felt euphoria like a sweet stickiness around the edge of her consciousness.
Bad news.
Sechev had given her powerfully toxic pills if she needed another dose of antido
te this soon.
She groped in her pocket for another of the syringes. She’d injected the last two doses into her thighs—vastus laterali. Large muscle groups took intramuscular injections best. Her next choices were shoulders—deltoids—or her ass. Lots of muscle there.
Yeah, let’s just go with muscle.
She yanked her jeans down over her butt, flipped the needle sheath off, and grimaced as she slid the needle into her right buttock and pushed down on the plunger.
Okay, down to business.
Sechev’s car was a late-model black Ford Fusion. It was hard to tell in the scant light, but the rear windows looked to have a heavier-than-usual tint job. Made sense. A professional killer’s job description likely included transporting things best concealed from casual viewers. Oops. Used to. Sechev was decidedly past tense, after all.
She unlocked the doors with the key fob, then wrapped one finger under the sleeve of her hoodie to pull the passenger door open. No overhead light came on, she noticed. Sechev was evidently a man who didn’t want witnesses to his nocturnal activities. Still, the dome light shone readily enough when she leaned in and pressed the overhead button, finger again covered by her hoodie.
A miasma of stomach-churning scents assaulted her. Body odour mixed with a recently smoked cigar. The realization that the man driving the vehicle had meant to kill her only added to the nausea. She fought against it, then realized vomiting again could only be a good thing. Falling to her knees beside the car, she gave in to it. Her stomach heaved and she spilled a small puddle of bile onto the gravel, steam rising from it in the cool air. She retched again but there was nothing left.
Shivering, she stayed on her knees, leaning the back of her arm against the vehicle to steady herself as she took deep, shuddering breaths. The snow falling on her face felt good. Steadier, she got back to her feet.
What would her father think, seeing her like this?
The Beast in the Bone Page 31
