by Jane Godman
“Maria, are you okay?” Jenny held on to her, keeping her upright.
“It’s this place.” She turned eyes that felt too wide open to Jenny’s face. “I hadn’t seen it properly until now, but I have paintings of it in my gallery. Dozens of them.”
“Who painted them?” Jenny beckoned the others over.
“He told me his name was Joseph.” Maria battled with her memory. Her mind was stubbornly refusing to work properly. What was his other name? It eluded her, dancing in the recesses of her memory, just out of her grasp. “I try to showcase the work of Alaskan artists. He paints landscapes and he emailed me photographs of some of his work. He was very persistent. The pictures of this house and the view from the cliff were among them and I suggested he should send me one or two and I’d see what I could do. Instead of one or two, he sent me fifteen.” She cast a glance back at the house. “They didn’t sell, but he kept sending more.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Sebastian asked.
“Yes. He came to the gallery once or twice to ask how the paintings were doing.” The shock was receding now. Her legs had stopped shaking and her breathing returned to normal. “He was really insistent about how they should be displayed and he got quite angry when I explained that I had to keep most of them in storage. There were other artists who also needed space in the gallery. He said I wasn’t trying hard enough to sell his work.” She thought back to the times she had met with the man in question. “He talked about how he’d been let down before. I can’t remember exactly what he said. Something about people not being what they appeared.”
“But you never thought he might be the Cage Killer?” Samson asked.
“It didn’t occur to me that it could be him. I never felt physically threatened by him,” Maria said. “If anything, I felt sorry for him. He seemed genuinely distressed when he talked about being duped in the past.”
“Okay.” In Madden’s absence, it seemed Samson was taking charge. “Let’s go inside and get this search over with. Madden said he’d meet us here if he could. If he hasn’t arrived by the time we’ve checked this place out, I’ll call him and let him know what Maria has just remembered. Then we’ll need to go to the gallery so we can get this guy’s full name and address.”
They moved in a group toward the house and Maria nodded at Jenny who sent her a probing glance. Was it wrong to feel relieved? It was because some of the tight feeling that had gripped her heart since she had first started to suspect Caspar had lifted.
But Wilkes had described the killer as someone close. The man who had come to her gallery—the man called Joseph—could hardly be called close. By “close” Wilkes must have meant I knew him, she told herself. She had interpreted it to suggest a deeper relationship. What else could it mean?
* * *
Once they stepped over the doorstep of the house, that smell transported Maria back to her captivity. That stale, disused scent with its noxious undercurrent set her nerves jangling. There were curving hallways and dimly lit rooms, with remnants of once-beautiful furniture peeking out from beneath dust sheets and chandeliers hanging unused from the high ceilings.
Maria reminded herself over and over that she had never walked through these rooms. The Cage Killer had taken her straight to the concealed basement. As the chill seeped into her bones, she felt it again. That awful, unmistakable feeling of being watched. That coldness on the back of her neck, that tingling down her spine. She told herself firmly that she had six of the finest bodyguards in the world and forced her feet to keep moving. They checked both floors in silence.
“Nothing. It doesn’t look like anyone has been near this place for some time.” Samson’s voice took on an echoing quality in the empty rooms. “I guess we need to check out the basement.”
He threw a glance in Maria’s direction, checking she was okay, before moving toward the concealed stairs that led down into the caves over which the house had been built. These were so well hidden that the police had missed them on their first search of the building when they were looking for Maria.
As soon as she stepped onto the top stair, Maria’s mind flashed back to the day of her abduction. Instantly, she was there again, a hood over her head, terrified out of her wits, being thrust ahead of her captor and into the unknown. The smell coming up from the gloom below was different. It was fouler, there was that rotten-egg tinge to it. It was the scent she associated with him. The scent of her nightmares.
She froze. Fear wrapped its arms tight around her chest. Why had she thought she could do this? “I don’t know . . .”
A strong arm slid around her waist and she recognized it immediately as Madden’s. “You don’t have to do anything. Not unless you want to.”
“You got here in time.” She leaned back against him gratefully.
“Forensics are at Rainer’s place now and my team are on their way. I needed to be here with you.”
His touch acted like an injection of pure courage straight into her veins. Straightening her spine, she turned her head to look at him. The tight grip on her chest loosened as she looked into his eyes. “I can do it now you are here.”
His smile spurred her feet the rest of the way down the stairs. Even though Vigo and Sebastian carried powerful flashlights, there was an inherent change in the mood of the group once they were underground. There was an instant awareness of the tons of rocks above their heads and the sense that, even though they had been there for billions of years, they might just come tumbling down.
“When we searched these caves after Maria was found, we discovered a series of corridors, cave rooms, and dead ends.” Madden produced a sheet of paper. “One of the forensic guys sketched this so we weren’t constantly doubling back on ourselves. Be careful, because one passage leads to a deep hole that my team nicknamed, the ‘bottomless pit.’” He gripped Maria’s hand. “That’s where he hung the cage you were held in.”
Maria led the way, keeping hold of Madden’s hand, as they progressed in a group through the caves. The passageways were mostly high enough for them to walk through with their heads bent, but there were times when they had to bend double and once or twice they had to crawl on their hands and knees. Maria remembered making her way through each part of this maze in complete darkness aware that the Cage Killer was following her movements, feasting on her terror.
They heard occasional sounds, slight slithering noises, as if there were distant disembodied footsteps. “What is that?” Lowell’s voice came from the back of the group. “Is there someone else down here?”
“I remember it from when I was imprisoned down here,” Maria said. “I think it’s our own movements echoing back at us, and maybe water trickling somewhere in the distance. Possibly there are bats down here, as well.”
She didn’t add that when she had been down here in a blackness so complete it had hurt her eyes, her overactive mind had filled in the blanks. She had started to believe she could see shapes on the edges of her vision, imagined she could hear voices whispering in her ear, shivered as she felt a touch along her naked flesh.
This time, she experienced none of those things and her relief was huge. It was just a series of caves, the place where an eccentric artist had chosen to make his home. The place the twisted mind of a murderer had seized upon as the ideal prison for his victim. It would always haunt Maria, but it couldn’t damage her any more than it already had. It had no supernatural hold over her.
It was also obvious, as they made their way through the labyrinth, that there was no one here. This was not where the Cage Killer was holding Hendrik. Slowly, they made their way back through the convoluted twists and turns.
“Did you say a commune once tried to take over this place?” Jenny asked.
“That’s what the records show,” Madden said. “After Edward Rainer, Anton’s grandfather, died, it was bought by the leader of a cult. They planned to live out here, but it seems they only stayed a matter of months. It’s not clear why they didn’t last.”
&n
bsp; “You mean they planned to use these caves as living accommodations?” They had reached the stairs again now, and Jenny’s expression was incredulous as she looked back at the darkness behind them.
Madden followed her gaze. “I never thought of it that way, although I did think the house was kind of small for a commune.”
As they walked toward the cars, brushing the dust of the caves off their clothing, Maria explained about the paintings in her gallery of Piedmont House. “I didn’t recognize the name of the house because the artist didn’t label his paintings.”
Madden took a last look back at the house. “Let’s get moving. Finding this guy’s name might be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.”
* * *
Called simply Delgardo Art, Maria’s gallery was set at the end of a row of shops in an upmarket Anchorage street. The building was painted white and the sign was understated, with flowing letters in shades of blue and yellow. There was a modern art sculpture on the lawn out front that made Madden think of reindeer antlers. Once they stepped inside, everything was pure Maria. Tasteful and understated, the gallery was all about style and subtlety. It was a classy, comforting place to be and the sights and colors of Alaska were reflected in every piece she had tastefully displayed on the white walls and the shelves that ranged at different heights about the space.
She explained that her parents had left her some money when they died. She had used it to purchase what had, at that time, been a derelict building. After a year or two of hard work, she has been able to open the gallery. It had run at a loss for several years, and she had come close to giving up on her dream venture, but with hard work and perseverance, she had built up a strong customer base and had gradually begun to turn a profit. Now she managed to make a living from the gallery and from online sales.
Maria’s own paintings were tasteful landscapes. Paintings of haunting beauty that showed her keen eye for drama and unique views. She had taken these and woven tiny elements of fabric, bead, and ribbon into them, giving the flat surface a new and different texture. Madden was enchanted by her talent and wished he had time to explore it further.
Instead, he followed Maria to a section of the gallery that had been set aside for larger canvasses. In this area, he found three or four paintings of Piedmont House. Although the pictures lacked the genuine talent of Maria’s paintings, something about them drew his attention. There was an emotion in the pictures that was tangible. Madden, no art critic, could sense it coming off the canvas in waves. It was pain, raw, and unmistakable.
“It makes me feel uncomfortable.” Jenny, standing at his side, gave a shiver.
“I think that’s why no one bought these pictures,” Maria said. “Although they are quite good, I can’t see anyone wanting to hang them in their home and look at them every day, can you?”
Before anyone could answer, Madden’s cell phone buzzed and, checking the caller ID, he saw it was Callie Monroe. He had left the forensic team finishing up at Rainer’s house and informed the members of the Alaskan Frontier force of Rainer’s suicide. It was frustrating that he couldn’t tell his human team of his suspicions about Chastel. He was conscious, once again, that his responsibilities straddled two worlds. He was leading two teams: the human police squad, which had to operate within a rigid mortal code and the brotherhood that thankfully was not similarly constrained.
“Boss?” Callie and the rest of the team were still in Fairbanks and, at this moment, Madden couldn’t see any reason to bring them to Anchorage. That might change when Maria found the address of the artist who had painted Piedmont House. “I’ve found some information on the guy you asked me to check out. The one called Caspar Delgardo.”
Madden flicked a glance in Maria’s direction. He didn’t want this information, whatever it was, to unsettle her. She had coped so well with going back into Piedmont House, far better than he could ever have believed she would. And now there was this business of the guy called Joseph and his misery-filled paintings of Piedmont House and the possible connection to the Cage Killer. Madden had seen how much the memory of Caspar had upset Maria. He didn’t want to do anything to make this day even worse. Moving slightly to one side, he listened to what Callie had to say. When he ended the call, he took a few moments to consider the information he had been given. Maria would need to know what he had just been told, but he decided now was not the right time for her to hear it.
As the brotherhood continued to look at the paintings, their mood subdued and uncomfortable, Maria moved behind the counter at the back of the gallery and began to go through her paperwork. Madden followed her, examining some of the exhibits and artwork on the way. As Maria withdrew a file from a drawer and extracted a sheaf of papers from it, one landscape caught Madden’s eye. Although this picture was smaller, the artist was obviously the same person who had painted the pictures of Piedmont House. The same quality of hurt and sadness had communicated itself through the brushstrokes and onto the canvas. Madden moved closer, his heart beginning to pound uncomfortably as he recognized the scene.
“This is it.” Maria held up a piece of paper. “His name is Joseph—”
“I know his name.” Madden’s voice sounded strange, even to his own ears. “It’s Ivan Joseph.” He pointed to the picture. “He is the man who saved my life when I was cast out as a cub by my pack. That’s the place he found me near Bear Paw Butte. It’s the place where I was raised.”
Chapter Sixteen
Throughout the journey back to Fairbanks, Madden had tried to convince himself he was wrong. He had brought the picture from Maria’s gallery with him just to reassure himself that he wasn’t going crazy. The view was one he had seen every day as he grew up. It was looking out toward the Chena Hills, with a glimpse of Bear Paw Butte in the distance.
How the hell could the trapper who had saved him still be alive? The same reason I am, Madden told himself. It’s called immortality. But the Ivan Joseph he knew had been human. What could have happened to change that?
No matter how hard he tried, Madden couldn’t reconcile the man who had saved him all those years ago with the Cage Killer. What could have happened to turn the kindly, animal-loving recluse into a vicious murderer? Someone close to one of you who has a grudge. That was what Wilkes had said. And Maria said the man who came to her gallery with his paintings talked about being duped, about people who were not what they appeared.
“What did he look like?” He could see the concern in Maria’s eyes as she sat beside him in the backseat of the car that Wilder was driving. It had been there throughout the plane journey from Anchorage. Now they were on the road, driving toward the address the man called Joseph had given Maria, and the tension in his gut was coiling ever tighter.
“He was big. Not fat, or out of shape, just a big man. Tall with broad shoulders.” That fit with Madden’s memory of Ivan Joseph. He remembered the trapper’s large, capable hands and big, scuffed boots. “His hair had probably been very dark once, but it had gone quite gray at the temples. He wasn’t remarkable looking in any way, except he had a broken nose.”
Madden nodded. “That sounds like Ivan.” He wished he could say it didn’t.
The scenery was achingly familiar now. Madden had grown up here, learned how to hunt here, had developed his wolf instincts in this wild, beautiful place. He was an Arctic werewolf, the ice and snow was his natural habitat. Deprived of that environment when he lost his parents, this had become his second home. It still had a nostalgia to it that he couldn’t shake. It pulled him in and tugged at his heart.
They found the address and followed a long driveway. Madden leaned forward. “Pull over here.”
Wilder cut the engine. A house was just visible behind a line of trees. “Are you sure?”
“I need to speak to him alone.” Maria murmured a protest and Madden pressed her hand. “I owe him that.”
It was hard for him to explain. If Ivan was the killer, he shouldn’t owe him anything. But Madden still felt he had to h
ear him out. Before this became another line of inquiry, he had to look into the other man’s eyes and see the truth there for himself. He had already broken every rule in the book by not calling in his human team as soon as he got hold of a name and address. What was one more broken rule in a long line? Samson pulled his vehicle over next to Wilder’s and the rest of the team alighted.
“Give me ten minutes,” Madden said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“We’ll search these outbuildings for Hendrik while you go inside,” Sebastian said.
There was so much land here. So many ruined and deserted outbuildings. Plenty of space for a workshop in which to make giant, human-sized cages. Ivan had always been good with his hands. The thought caused the edges of Madden’s vision to blur slightly.
“Be careful.” Maria’s voice pulled him back from the nightmare of his thoughts. “So much time has passed. The man you once knew may not be the same man who is in that house now.”
Madden nodded, turning away to walk through the trees toward the house. The ranch house was long, low, and worn by time. The wood had faded, moss had claimed patches of the roof, and the windows were coated in grime.
And there, on the porch, with his plaid rug over his knees, rocking back and forth in his chair, was Ivan. He had a gun hanging loosely in his right hand. As Madden stepped onto the porch, the smell hit him. It was the scent that had been at each of the Cage Killer murder sites. He thought of it as the stench of death and madness. It sure as hell hadn’t been around all those years ago when he was a cub.
“I’ve been expecting you.” Ivan didn’t look his way. He just kept rocking with his eyes fixed on the distant mountains. “After each one, I thought ‘This time he’ll come.’”
