by Gayle Wilson
"Answering their questions." She kept her head averted.
"You do realize that little tirade will be on the news tonight as well as in the headlines tomorrow?"
"Good."
"You think drawing Tate's attention back to you is good?"
"Why not? As long as he's concentrating on me, he'll have less time to molest and murder some other child."
"I'm not sure it works that way."
Even as he said it, he wondered if it could. Did Tate's quest for revenge for what Sarah had tried to do supersede his homicidal impulses? If so, could they possibly use that to lure him out of hiding?
Except no one in authority believed Tate was still in the area. Or that he was the one who'd murdered Dan Patterson. And until they did...
"Why am I not surprised?" Sarah said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You haven't been sure how Tate works all along, have you? He's just been one big mystery to the police department since he started his rampage here."
"Hey. I'm on your side, remember."
Her lips closed as she swallowed, the movement visible down the line of her throat. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just... He had no reason to come after Dan. Maybe me. but not Dan. But it was an accident. Something nobody could have foreseen. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had no way of knowing Tate was going to be there that afternoon. No way to prevent—"
"You aren't buying into his mother's crap, are you? It's no more valid than the rest of the garbage she spewed."
She said nothing in response, again turning to look out her window. He thought maybe she would let it go, but the accusations had apparently cut too deep.
"She did look after Danny a lot. Maybe—"
"So? You were working. Women work because they have to. You weren't buying furs and jewelry with what you made. You were buying a future for your son."
The words, meant to comfort, were out of his mouth before he realized their unintended cruelty. Danny Patterson would never enjoy the future both his parents had struggled to provide for him.
"What happened wasn't your fault. None of it. Only one person is to blame for Danny's death. The same person who also murdered your husband. If you try to take the blame for his actions, then he wins."
"He's already won." she said, her voice low and bitter.
"No, he hasn't. Because this isn't over yet." Although Mac was aware she had turned to look at him, he didn't meet her eyes.
"You think he's still here." Not a question, but a statement of fact.
He did. He couldn't have justified his absolute conviction about that, but it was there.
Samuel Tate was still in New Orleans. Because whatever was going on. this wasn't over for him, either.
Mac had hesitated to push his luck with the FBI profiler who'd worked with them on Tate. For one thing, he didn't know what Daryl Johnson's reaction to his suspension might be. For another, he was pretty sure how Morel would view any contact between them.
Still, the more he thought about Sonny's reaction to his request for surveillance on Sarah's apartment building, the more he'd wanted to run some things by someone who knew more about the killer's tendencies than he did.
Which was why, in the end, he'd been willing to take a chance on this call. Because he hadn't read anything negative in Johnson's greeting, he'd gotten right to the point.
"I know you don't think Tate had anything to do with the message left on Mrs. Patterson's phone or with her husband's death." Johnson had already told him the former, and if he believed what Sonny said, the profiler had also come down on the side of those who thought Dan's death was unrelated to the serial killer. "I have what I guess is a hypothetical question."
"In that case I'll give you a hypothetical answer."
"Fair enough. Let's say Tate did leave that message. And let's say that he was responsible for Patterson's death although that was tangential to his intent."
"Tangential?"
"In that it wasn't what he was there for."
"There in Mrs. Patterson's apartment?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Does Patterson's death restart the clock?"
Sarah had said on the way home from the funeral yesterday that if Tate were concentrating on her, he'd have less time to be hunting little boys. Mac had started to wonder whether Dan Patterson's death would satisfy whatever urges drove Tate to kill children.
"You're asking me if Tate is still in the area, will you have some time before he starts hunting again?"
"We think that's what he was doing when he was arrested. The timing was right. But now that he's killed again..."
"I really wish I could tell you what you want to hear. For all our sakes."
"And you can't."
"There's a ritual involved in what Tate does. Actually, with the organized ones there's a process. Procedures that they always follow. For most of them the act isn't complete unless the ritual is also complete."
"So if he were interrupted or if he had to kill on the spur of the moment—"
"If, say, in case he were surprised by someone who wasn't his intended victim and had to kill to protect himself?"
"You're saying that murder wouldn't satisfy him."
"That's right," Johnson said. "As strange as it sounds, he probably would be annoyed that he'd had to kill someone that way. It wouldn't feel 'proper' to him."
"So if we're right, and he was out hunting before—"
"Then he's going to be out hunting again. It's been— what?—since your last murder? Five months?"
"About that."
"Then I'd say he's due. If he were there," Johnson added carefully.
"I appreciate your time. It was just a thought. Something I'd wondered about."
"No more messages?"
"What?"
"Has Mrs. Patterson received any more messages?"
"No. No, she hasn't."
Of course, Sarah hadn't been back to her apartment either. Not since the afternoon he'd gone with her to pick up her personal items.
"That's a good sign it wasn't Tate. If it had been, I doubt he would have given up so soon. Once he chose to communicate with her, I would have been willing to bet he'd continue to do so. The fact that he hasn't seems all the more reason to discount him as the source of the original message. Besides being totally out of the pattern for him, I can't think of anything he might get out of doing something like that. It just doesn't make sense."
"Yeah. Well, as I said, this was strictly hypothetical. Once I thought about the possibility. I thought it couldn't hurt to check. Thanks."
"Anytime. Mac. Just be glad Tate is somebody else's headache now, and you all can get back to concentrating on the ordinary, garden-variety criminal."
"I don't think we grow those down here."
"Thank your lucky stars that you don't grow a lot of the Samuel Tate variety."
"You guys track down anything from his prints? I know they weren't a match to anything in AFIS—"
"We're still looking. Trying to find anything that will lead us anywhere. I understand you guys are pretty sure he was a Southerner?"
"That was everyone's impression, based on talking to him. There are always traces of an accent that are hard to erase."
"Maybe we'll get lucky."
"If he pops up somewhere else and you guys get wind of it, could you give me a call?"
"You got it, Mac. You've lived with this guy so long, I think you're seeing him in every shadow."
"You may be right. I'd just like to know something definitive about his whereabouts. We'd all sleep better at night."
"I understand. We're putting out another alert on his methodology. Maybe when he surfaces the next time, whoever is in charge of the investigation will recognize something about the murders."
"Good Luck."
"Lots of times, no matter how diligent we are, that's what it boils down to. Luck. Or a screw upon their part. We gratefully accept either."
So would I, Mac thought, as he hung up the phone. So would I.
Seventeen
Sarah had ordered Chinese delivery, which she was portioning onto their plates when Mac's cell rang. Their eyes met across the table, just as hers and Dan's had so often in those terrible weeks after Danny disappeared. They'd been frantic to hear something, anything, but also dreading what that might be.
"You could ignore it," she suggested.
The media had been all over her confrontation with Louise. They'd made so much of the fact that Mac had escorted her that day that she knew he was worried about his job.
Instead of following her suggestion. Mac dug the phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. When he flipped open the case, she assumed the call was from Sonny or someone else he felt he couldn't afford to ignore and went back to spooning food on the plates.
"Hello." He listened for several seconds before he said, "Okay, slow down and say that again. I'm not sure I understand."
Her eyes lifted once more, watching him. She could sense how hard he was concentrating on whatever he was being told.
"And you're sure that's all she can tell you?"
Another pause.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do remember that. Have you called the police?" He put his hand over the mouthpiece, whispering to her, "It's Mrs. Ingersoll."
With that knowledge, Sarah replayed the conversation up to now. If Mac was telling Dwight's mother she should call the police, this must have something to do with an occurrence at the apartment building.
Or with Dwight himself?
She took a breath, fighting the rush of absolute terror that thought evoked. Had something happened to Dwight?
But if so, surely the woman would already have called the police. Why call Mac instead of dialing 9-1-1?
"We'll be right there." Mac closed the phone, finally looking up at her.
"What?"
"Dwight apparently went out this afternoon while he was supposed to be staying with his grandmother. He isn't back. His mother wasn't particularly worried until it got dark, but now—"
"Went out where?"
He hesitated before he told her. "From what his mother can piece together, based on the grandmother's version of events, you understand. Dwight was going to the park to walk with you and your dog."
The cold knot of fear that had formed in her stomach exploded, clogging her lungs with ice. "That's... I mean I haven't been over there in days. You told her to keep an eye on him. Not to let him out of the house—"
"This is the grandmother's story, Sarah. Mrs. Ingersoll told us the woman isn't all there. We really have no way of knowing what happened—"
"So what you're saying is Dwight could be anywhere. Somebody could have come to their door and dragged him out of the apartment, and those two wouldn't know anything about it."
Without answering, Mac opened his phone again, running through his contacts list before selecting one of them. As he waited through the rings, he refused to meet her eyes.
Without any preliminaries or explanation, he asked whoever he'd called. "Did you put somebody on that apartment building like I asked you to?"
"Sonny?" Sarah questioned, reading between the lines. "Is that Sonny?"
Mac ignored her. "Damn it, why didn't you, Sonny? I told you a kid lives there and that he—" Mac stopped, listening to whatever his partner was saying. "Screw the manpower issues. And screw you, too. The kid's disappeared, and nobody knows where. The mother says she called the precinct and got the runaround. What the hell is wrong with you people? That building is the only connection we've got to Tate, and you clowns blow it again."
Once more Mac listened, his face hardening. After a couple of seconds, he closed the phone with a twist of his wrist.
"Get your coat."
She didn't waste time with questions. She grabbed up the containers she hadn't opened, almost throwing them into the fridge before she headed to the front closet where she'd hung her jacket. When she had it on, she grabbed Mac's, looking around to find him fastening the leash onto Toby's collar.
"What are you doing?"
"I thought maybe we could get something of the kid's from his mother. See if Toby could pick up his scent from that."
"Toby?" She shook her head, thinking how far from a bloodhound or any other kind of working dog Danny's mutt was. "I don't think Toby's ever—"
"It can't hurt," Mac snapped, cutting off her objection. "And right now... Right now. we don't seem to have all that many options."
"Dwight? Are you out here?"
Sarah's voice had grown hoarse in the half hour or so they'd been out in the park. Although she was less hopeful now than when she and Mac had started their search, she didn't know where else to look.
A couple of policemen had arrived at the Ingersoll apartment before they'd managed to get away from Dwight's mother. Dressed in that same bedraggled bathrobe, she hadn't offered to join them in scouring the park, pleading her need to give the policemen the information they would have to have to put an official search for her missing son into motion.
She had supplied them with the bottoms of a pair of pajamas, which she said Dwight had worn the night before. Although Toby had dutifully sniffed the garment, he'd been far more interested in his proximity to the familiar park and its trees. He'd almost pulled her arm out of the socket in his eagerness to get across the street and into it.
Once they'd reached the area where she and Dwight had played with the dog, Sarah let him off the leash in hopes that if allowed to run free, he might pick up the child's scent. Maybe look for him to play another game of catch.
For the first few minutes, as Toby ran from bush to bush, she had actually thought the dog might lead them somewhere. It soon became apparent that all the animal was doing was sniffing places where other dogs had done their business.
"Answer me. Dwight. I've got Toby. He's waiting for you to throw the ball for him."
"If he's here, Sarah, he would have answered you by now."
Mac sounded as dejected as she felt. Not only had Toby proven worthless as a tracker, she hadn't been able to tell from the grandmother's incoherent ramblings whether Dwight had even mentioned the park to her before he'd left this afternoon.
"If he's still able to answer."
She pulled the collar of her coat tight against her throat. Its lightweight wasn't providing much warmth against the cold, moisture-laden air off the river.
"There's no sense making yourself sick out here. If Dwight came to the park, it's obvious he's no longer here. It's time to give up. Let the professionals do their job."
"Like they have all along?"
"There's nothing more we can do," Mac said, ignoring the gibe. "And you need to get in out of this cold"
"Just quit, you mean? We should stop looking for Dwight because it's cold?"
"We don't even know if he came to the park. Besides, when the search teams start, they won't want us here."
"The search teams?" she mocked. "Are those the same ones who looked for Danny? The ones who didn't find his body for more than three months?"
"Sarah—" Mac reached for her arm, but she pulled away from him.
"You go on inside if you're cold. This is the only place I know to look. And if someone did lure him away by telling him something about Toby or me—"
As if he recognized his name, the dog began to bark. They both turned, trying to locate him in the darkness. Judging by sound, he had drifted farther away from where they were standing than either of them had been aware.
"Toby?" Sarah called.
The animal continued to bark, the sound insistent now. Determined.
"He's found something." She worked to keep her voice steady, trying to control the surge of hope recognition of that particular type barking gave her.
"He's probably treed a squirrel," Mac said. "Or cornered a possum. It doesn't mean—"
Ignoring him, Sarah started walking in the direction of the frenzied barking. "Toby? Where are you, boy?"
<
br /> There was no response but a continuation of the sounds the dog had been making. Three or four sharp yaps and then a momentary silence.
As Sarah tried to gauge the direction they came from, she could hear Mac behind her, fighting his way, as she was having to, through the dense underbrush. They were nearing the center of the park now, an area almost totally overgrown because the commercial mowers the city used couldn't handle the terrain.
She pushed through a mass of tangled vines, hoping they weren't poison ivy. Although she couldn't see Toby, she was encouraged because his barking was clearer now. Closer.
And then, as she broke through the thickest vegetation she'd yet encountered, she spotted him, the white patches of his coat standing out against the darker shapes around him. He was standing at the base of one of the giant oaks that shaded the park in summer. Its low branches trailed Spanish moss, pale and ghostly against the dim light from the distant street lamps.
Squirrel, she thought. Just like Mac said.
As she walked toward the tree, Sarah took the leash out of her coat pocket. This insanity had gone on long enough.
"Toby, stop it. Hush. now. Hush. Tobe. That's enough."
At the sternness in her voice, the dog backed away from the trunk a step or two. He looked at her briefly, his eyes glowing red in the dimness.
Unfortunately, he wasn't disciplined enough to obey her command for long. Before she could get close enough to secure his collar, he was at it again. In addition to the annoying yaps, now there was the periodic low, rumbling growl.
As upset as Toby was, Sarah was afraid that she might have to drag him away by force. As the thought formed, she realized for the first time that the dog wasn't looking up into the tree that loomed above him.
He was focused instead on something beyond it. And the sounds he was making deep in his throat had become more threatening.
Sarah took a step back, trying to see around the oak's broad trunk to the area Toby was interested in. For a moment she couldn't distinguish anything in the dense undergrowth that might have set him off.
Then, a shape seemed to jump out at her. Something different from the surrounding sprawl of reaching vegetation.
