by Kate White
I shot her my best smile. “If I pick up the tab tonight, would you be up for sharing?”
“As long as it’s solely for your own edification. I could never even post what he says and attribute it to an unnamed source, because people might suspect it’s him.”
“Got it.”
Alice plucked a piece of bread from the basket and buttered it. “So how does all this make you feel about Cody Blaine?”
“I’d say that for the most part, the idea of him as his wife’s murderer has left the building, but I’m trying to figure out the most expedient way to determine if he was out of the country ten years ago.”
“Let me save you the trouble. I have a pal in the veterans’ office here and he confirmed that Cody was in Afghanistan when the girls disappeared.”
“Ah, so that definitely lets him off the hook.”
“Yup. Like I told you, I don’t love the guy, but I’m feeling pretty bad for him now.”
Our wine arrived, and we each indulged in a long sip.
“Any more ideas about who the killer could be?”
“I know you didn’t love my trucker theory, but to me that’s still a possibility, and it explains the ten-year gap. Maybe he’s been killing in different areas all these years.”
I picked up the saltshaker and made circles on the table with it, pulling a thought together.
“But remember, the killer has to be someone—or closely connected to someone—who knew I was asking about Shannon going to church again. And that means a person who’s been in the mix here lately.”
“That’s the kind of thought that makes me want to leave the lights on at night.”
When our meals showed up, we switched gears—I could sense Alice needed a break from the topic as much as I did—and we talked instead about how we’d each broken into the field. Alice, it turned out, had worked in newspapers pretty consistently since college but had tabled her career for seven years when her son, Ben, was young. She showed me a couple of pictures of him. Nice-looking guy, now a college professor, and she clearly adored him.
“You’ve been a reporter for a long time,” I said, taking a break from my crab cakes. “Have you found a way to keep days like today from getting the better of you?”
I wasn’t simply making conversation. Despite how many gruesome stories I’d reported on, I was having a hard time preventing this morning’s experience from weighing on me.
“Well, fortunately we don’t get many as bad as this. But I’ve covered my share of horror shows. Kids abused and then put into foster care, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I find that every so often I have to detach, disengage completely. Or I go nuts.”
“How do you do that?”
“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I fish. I head out onto the lake with a cooler and stay for hours. It’s my form of meditating, I guess.”
“So you keep your focus on the fish? On catching them?”
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but for me the real disengagement comes when the fish aren’t biting. I find it really peaceful to sit in the boat and do nothing but listen to the water lapping and the gulls calling overhead.”
I could feel my expression turning wistful.
“What?” she asked.
“Remember I told you my father was a bird-watcher? He always said he loved the spaces between birds. When he was simply waiting for a birdcall or a rustle in the trees.”
“It’s the exact same thing, really.” Alice chuckled. “My husband was all about the day’s catch and frying it up for dinner. I never admitted to him that when I went out on the boat alone, I sometimes didn’t even drop my line in the water.”
We had just ordered coffee when Alice’s phone buzzed.
“Okay, here we go,” she said as she caught the name on the screen. “Give me a second.”
I nodded as she rose from the table and positioned herself ten feet away, in the corner of the room. Less than two minutes later, she was back, her mouth agape.
“Can you say?” I asked. It was clear whatever she’d heard was big and I had to at least try to find out what it was.
“Yeah, but you’re giving me your word, right? This is merely for background. We can’t even hint at it.”
“You have my word.” My pulse had started to race.
“The remains in those other two bags? They were actually fairly well preserved. Just as your pal hypothesized, the bodies had mummified.”
“Are they the campers?”
“They think so. They need to obtain DNA from some of their family members and make a comparison, but there’s a tattoo on one body that fits with one Page Cramer had.”
“Anything else?”
“No autopsy yet on Shannon, but from the bruising, it looks as if she was strangled. They’ll probably announce that.”
I winced. It was all so freaking sad.
“But here’s the really crazy part,” Alice continued. “There are cut marks on Shannon’s body, probably made postmortem. And they seem to be on the other bodies, too.”
“He stabbed them after they were dead?”
“Yes, but only on the palms of the hands, and the tops of the feet.”
“What?” Somewhere in the back of my brain, a thought was knitting together fast, based on bits and pieces I’d read over time. “You mean like—”
“Yeah,” Alice said. “Like stigmata.”
Chapter 9
FOR A MOMENT I SAT THERE STOCK-STILL, STUNNED. WHY would the killer feel a compulsion to mark his victims that way?
“Do you know anything about this type of phenomenon?” Alice asked.
“Nothing beyond a few references I’ve seen in books.”
Alice fished her phone from her purse and asked Siri to fill us in.
“Okay, here’s Wikipedia,” she said, peering intently at her screen. “‘Stigmata is a term used by members of the Christian faith to describe the manifestations of bodily wounds, scars, and pain in locations corresponding to the crucifixion wounds of Jesus Christ, such as the hands, wrists, and feet.’ Um, let’s see . . . ‘Stigmata are primarily associated with the Roman Catholic faith. . . .’”
“From what I’ve read, the wounds on so-called real stigmatics are supposed to have appeared spontaneously.”
“Right. Oh, this is interesting,” she said, still reading. “‘A high percentage of all stigmatics—perhaps over eighty percent—are women.’ So the killer must be a religious nut, right? He leaves the bodies at a former Catholic retreat center. And now this.”
“And the phone call,” I reminded her. “Mentioning what a good Catholic Shannon was.”
“Jeez, this is adding up to be pretty freaky.”
“Any word on cause of death for Amy and Page?”
“Nothing yet.”
We asked for more coffee and batted theories back and forth for a while longer, but I could feel myself growing restless, eager to be in a setting where I could think without old songs by Foreigner and Bon Jovi pounding in the background. I also wanted to settle back in my motel room, with the dead bolt firmly in place, before it grew too late. I flagged the waitress for the check.
“Bailey, I know I’m in danger of becoming a nag, but please be extra careful,” Alice said when we stepped out onto the sidewalk. I appreciated her concern. I kept telling myself I’d served a purpose for the killer, and he might want or need me to continue in that role, which meant my life wasn’t in any danger. But the news Alice had revealed tonight had unnerved me.
Our cars, it turned out, were in different directions, and before parting, we embraced in a hug. As ugly as the day had been, it had bonded the two of us.
Two minutes later, I was headed north on Route 9N. The road was nearly deserted except for the occasional car coming south. My high beams picked out the motels and fast-food stands closest to the road, but everything else was swallowed by darkness.
As I drove, I let my gaze dart regularly to the rearview mirror. Just once, a vehicle appeared behind me,
but it pulled off after a couple of minutes onto a side road.
When I swung into the parking lot of the Breezy Point, a light was burning inside the office, but I didn’t see anyone moving around in there. Surely there had to be a clerk on duty someplace.
I maneuvered into the parking spot in front of my unit, killed the engine, and twisted in my seat, scanning the lot. There was only one other car, parked way at the other end, in front of a unit with a faint light seeping out from the edges of the window shade. Well, at least somebody was around. I jumped out of the Jeep and quickly let myself into the room.
After flicking on the lights and shaking off my jacket, I checked Twitter for alerts from a variety of news sources. With the discovery of the three bodies, the Shannon Blaine story had exploded and was now online everywhere—including CNN, People Crime Watch, and the network TV websites. By tomorrow the area would be flooded with fresh troops of reporters. Maybe the killer would reach out to one of them. As much as I’d been creeped out by the call, the idea of another reporter securing a fresh clue from him didn’t please me.
Next, I scrolled through a few vaguely scholarly articles about stigmata, including one that claimed that most historical cases of stigmata were likely either self-inflicted or psychosomatic.
None of which explained why the killer would want to mark his victims in that manner.
I toyed with a few possible motives for his actions. He might have been mistreated by a parent with extreme religious beliefs. Or he’d been abused—sexually or otherwise—by a member of the clergy. Since there was a possibility he’d gone to a retreat once at the Sunset Bay center, he may have even been abused there.
Surely the police would be combing through whatever records still existed from the center and following up with attendees, as well as with people who had supervised, instructed, or counseled there.
They wouldn’t be sharing that info, but there was one person who might at least help me understand the killer’s mental state: Marc Horton, a former FBI profiler who was always kind enough to take my calls. Though it was too late for a conversation now, I shot him an email asking if we could talk tomorrow.
This new development also added urgency to my desire to follow up with Tom Nolan. In addition to wanting to learn if he’d informed anyone about our brief conversation, I was eager to hear what he knew about the retreat center. Had he ever heard a parishioner mention having been there when younger? Had Shannon ever been there? I’d have to swing by the parish center at some point tomorrow.
A few days ago, I’d wondered whether Shannon had been experiencing a spiritual or emotional crisis that had led her back to the church and then spurred her to go on the lam. It hadn’t played out like that at all, but I still wanted to know why she’d gone back, because it might factor into the killer’s motive.
There was still the chance, of course, that Shannon had been abducted randomly by a sexual predator who’d spotted her jogging, one who just happened to have a religious obsession. He might have learned of her faith only after reading about her disappearance in the news. The fact that she had recently rejoined the church could be nothing more than coincidence. But as Buddy, my old newspaper colleague, used to say, believing in coincidences was on par with thinking that stuffed animals came to life when you weren’t looking at them or that pulling the blanket up around your neck in bed kept you safe from harm.
Perhaps J.J. might have insight worth sharing. I needed to grab more time with her, and with Kelly, too, if I could ever manage to dislodge her from Doug’s side.
I stretched my weary arms and legs and then turned my attention back to my laptop, rereading the Post Star coverage about the two campers. I found nothing I hadn’t noted the first time. I also searched for anything I could find about Page’s family, who were reportedly from Florida, but I had no luck in that department, either. Hopefully Amy’s friend Kayla would prove to be a valuable resource.
My eyes, I realized, were strained from being in front of a screen for so long, and every muscle in my body begged for rest. I was also desperate for a break from the thoughts churning endlessly in my brain about the contents of those black contractor bags.
I double-checked that the bolt on the door was in place, and after slipping into a T-shirt, slid between the sheets. Warm air whirred from the heating unit. Normally that kind of sound would have annoyed me to death, but tonight it managed to act like white noise, and before long, I felt myself drifting off to sleep.
And then I was wide awake again. I sensed a sound had woken me and I strained to hear. Nothing at first. I scooted up in bed. Okay, there it was—footsteps on the walkway not far from my door. My heart bounced inside my chest.
I reached for the lamp but thought better of revealing I’d been awakened. Instead, I froze in position listening. It was silent outside again, and I wondered if my imagination had gotten the better of me. But then, soft as a whisper, more footsteps, coming closer.
I fumbled for my phone on the bedside table and grasped it, just in case. The footsteps ceased again. Whoever it was must have stopped directly in front of my door. My eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and I stared at the doorknob, waiting to see if it jiggled.
The knob never moved. But I could have sworn that the door itself shifted ever so slightly, as if someone were leaning lightly against it.
Chapter 10
I SLID QUIETLY OUT OF BED, CELL PHONE IN HAND, AND TIPTOED to the window. As I reached toward the curtain, I heard footsteps again, this time receding. I pulled the curtain to the right. There was no one in sight, but the window allowed me only a partial view of the parking lot, not the walkway on either side of my unit.
I used the room phone on the bedside table to call the front desk. It rang five times, ten times, twenty, as if each ring was being sucked into a black hole. Finally, a man answered, his voice surprisingly chipper.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“You’re the desk clerk?”
“I’m Dale, the night manager. Sorry about the delay, I was emptying trash in the dumpster out back.”
“Were you walking in front right before that? I could hear someone on the other side of my door.”
“Hmm, that wasn’t me. A guest checked in a few minutes ago. That’s probably what you heard.”
“Are they in a room right near mine?”
“A couple of doors down. I wouldn’t worry. We don’t have any trouble in these parts.”
Really? I guess he didn’t follow the freaking news.
I thanked him for his help and returned to the window, teasing the curtain back again. There was nothing to see.
Maybe the footsteps I’d heard had belonged to the late-arriving guest, but why had he or she lingered by my door? What if the killer had discovered my whereabouts in addition to my number and was skulking around out there?
I didn’t drift off to sleep until well after two, and when I stirred awake around seven, I felt ragged. Before showering, I cracked open the door and surveyed the scene. A white Camry was now parked directly in front of a unit four doors down from mine, confirming that another guest had indeed shown up last night. But that didn’t explain the lingering.
I was desperate for coffee and food, and before I headed to my meeting with Kayla, I stopped at the small café in the village I’d eaten at my first night here. The place was almost full by the time I arrived and smelled comfortingly of morning joe, maple syrup, and buttered toast. I made a beeline for the only table available by the window and ordered an omelet and coffee.
I was savoring my first slug of brew when I noticed that Hank Coulter, his jet-black hair gleaming in the sunlight, was sitting five or six tables away with four other guys around the same age. His back was mostly to me, but he must have sensed my eyes on him, because he unexpectedly turned and surveyed the room, slowly stroking his chin.
It didn’t take long for his gaze to settle on me. I caught a flicker of recognition in his eye, but he offered nothing to acknowledge my prese
nce, not even a quick nod.
It would be smart to have a conversation with Coulter—after all, he would have been on the police force at the time Amy and Page disappeared, perhaps even chief at that time—but it didn’t seem wise to muscle in on the breakfast with his bros. I decided to watch for him to leave and corral him then. Though I would have to brace myself for a possible tongue-lashing. He would have heard from his contacts that I’d played junior detective and had gone to Sunset Bay yesterday without alerting the cops about the phone call.
But corralling proved to be unnecessary. As I was about to dig into my omelet, Coulter rose from his chair and headed in my direction. His plaid shirt looked to be the size of one of those tartan blankets you see at tailgate picnics or tossed over a leather chair in a man cave. I was sure he was going to take down a couple of juice glasses or mugs as he snaked his large frame between the tables, but his thighs seemed to read the space like sonar, and he cleared the area without a mishap. Two diners saluted him with “Morning, Chief.”
“Mind if I sit?” he asked when he reached me.
“By all means,” I said.
He lowered himself into the chair across from me, making the wood groan in protest. “Pardon my ignorance, but do you say your name Wiggins?”
“Weggins, actually.”
“My apologies then, Ms. Weggins.” His tone was oddly friendly. Maybe he was simply toying with me before whipping out the lash.
“Not a problem.”
He smiled, running a hand up and down the front of his shirt.
“Well, I want to make sure I’ve got it right, because everyone in this town owes you and Alice Hatfield a debt of gratitude. That retreat center was far enough away from the main search area that I’m not sure anyone would have thought to check there.”
Okay, this was not what I’d been expecting.
“I appreciate you saying that, but it wasn’t anything heroic. I was just following up on a tip.”
“I spoke to Alice Hatfield and she told me you took the call seriously, that you went the extra mile to figure out what it might mean. And though they’re not in a position to thank you at the moment, the family is grateful, too. As horrible as it is to lose Shannon, not knowing her fate would have been hell on earth.”
