Indelible

by Laurie Buchanan

  Watching him inhale deeply from the mouth of the empty bottle, Emma is filled with a mixture of horror, anger, and fear.

  He leans toward her a little further. “That’s ten, in case you weren’t counting. You’re number eleven.”

  Cynthia says, “Dark. Dank. Foul. Slippery.” She feels imminent danger in each word.

  The pen in Fran’s white-knuckled grip captures each word.

  “Emma is above ground, yet under. She’s alive. I hear a word, but it’s so faint I can hardly understand it. I think it’s burnt.” Cynthia listens harder than ever to the universe. “Jagged edges.”

  Minutes pass, but nothing more comes. When Cynthia opens her eyes, she hears a collective exhale. “Did you get everything?”

  “Yes,” Fran says, setting the tablet on the table so everyone can see it.

  “I think you just described a cave,” Niall says.

  “I agree,” Libby and Mick say in unison.

  “Where do you keep the brochures for our guests?” Niall asks Libby. “Isn’t there one with locations for spelunking?”

  “You’re right,” Libby says, “I’ll get it.”

  “What’s spelunking?” Fran asks.

  “It’s the sport of exploring caves and caverns,” Mick interjects. “Several years ago, Sam and I did it with one of our buddies.”

  Libby returns and hands the brochure to Mick.

  Opening it, he reads out loud. “Ape Cave at Mount St. Helens. Blanchard Hill Bat Caves and Oyster Dome in Bellingham, WA. Big Four Ice Caves in Snohomish, WA. Gardner Cave at Crawford State Park. And Paradise Ice Caves at Mount Rainier’s Paradise Glacier.”

  “It has to be Blanchard Hill Bat Caves,” Niall says. “It’s the closest.”

  Turning to Cynthia, Mick says, “You saw Jason Hughes fall over the cliff in the storm. It’s hard to imagine anyone surviving that fall, but the divers didn’t find a body. And we know that Emma wouldn’t have left willingly without at least saying goodbye.”

  Studying the words Fran wrote on the tablet, Niall picks up Mick’s line of deductive reasoning. “All of the words from the impressions Cynthia received have a common theme—caves—except for one, the word burnt.”

  “Berndt!” Mick and Libby shout at the same time, eyes wide with excitement.

  “It’s not burnt, like burnt toast,” Mick explains. “It’s b-e-r-n-d-t.” He spells it out. “Like Andrew Berndt, the signature in the journal, and he’s dead. Jason Hughes has to be his fraternal twin.”

  Toni’s morning has been chewed up with paperwork and warrants. Frustration crawls over her, its needle-like claws digging under her skin. She stands next to Joe’s desk as he makes a phone call. She can only hear his side of the conversation.

  “Hello, Niall. It’s Joe Bingham at the station. Cynthia Winters was right. The name badges pinned to each towel belong to housekeeping staff at hotels strewn all across the country, and each one of them is dead. She said what?” he barks into the receiver. “I think you’re right, it’s gotta be. Wait a sec. Let me grab a pen.”

  Toni watches him scribble five lines.

  Ape Cave—Mount St. Helens

  Blanchard Hill Bat Caves and Oyster Dome—south of Bellingham

  Big Four Ice Caves—Snohomish

  Gardner Cave—Crawford State Park

  Paradise Ice Caves—Mount Rainier, Paradise Glacier

  “What’s going on?” Toni mouths, pointing to the list.

  Shaking his head, Joe continues, “We’re on our way. Be there in fifteen,” and hangs up the phone. Turning to Toni, he says, “Bianco, grab a jacket and your tactical bag, I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  Cynthia looks at Mick in the chair next to hers. “Okay,” she nods. “I’ll tell you everything that happened on the bluff, even if it seems inconsequential.”

  As she closes her eyes, Cynthia pictures the violent scene. “First he told me he’d been watching me. Then he said, ‘You know about me, don’t you?’ I told him that because he hadn’t let me look at his palm, I didn’t know anything about him. I asked, ‘What is it you think I know about you?’ and he said, ‘You’re the psychic, you tell me.’ I repeated that I didn’t know anything about him. That’s when he said, ‘Don’t toy with me,’ and smashed a bottle of wine against a boulder.”

  Cynthia continues. “Holding the neck of the broken bottle with the jagged edges facing me, Jason backed me toward the cliff’s edge. When I asked him why he wanted to hurt me, he said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you, I want to kill you. But it’s got to look like an accident. Anything, a gust of wind, could cause you to keel over the edge and plunge to your death.’ That’s when Hemingway arrived.”

  Niall ladles the soup that he made. They eat and listen as Cynthia paints a vivid word picture of what happened on the bluff.

  “Jason said he thought I was a sorceress. I played on his fears and told him that I’d beckoned him out there intentionally. I could see he was scared. That’s when he cut me. Hemingway jumped into the fray and knocked him down.”

  At the sound of his name, Cynthia hears Hemingway’s tail thump the floor on the other side of the Dutch door.

  “Even though he’d been cut, Hemingway got Jason’s wrist in his jaws and clamped down until he let go of the bottle. I’d be surprised if his wrist isn’t broken. As they continued to wrestle, Jason tried to scoot himself away from Hemingway. I don’t think he realized he was heading toward the cliff. He managed to get to his knees, then maneuvered to his feet just as a strong gust of wind came tearing from the north. He was so close to the slippery edge, he lost his footing and plunged over the cliff.”

  A quick siren blast announces Joe’s arrival. Taking one of her warm hands in both of his, Mick says, “Thank you, Cynthia.”

  Walking over to the Dutch door, Mick looks over at Hemingway. “And thank you, too, you big lug.”

  “Be careful,” Libby calls after his retreating back.

  “I will. I’m going to stop at my cabin and then head out. I’ll keep you posted when I can.”

  Approaching the cruiser, Mick sees Toni in the passenger seat. Leaning down he speaks to both her and Joe through the open passenger window. “I’ll be right back. I just need to grab my go-bag.”

  The still air in the cave has an eerie kind of clarity. Jason watches Emma in the darkness. His eyes have a crazed intensity.

  Raising his eyebrows suggestively, Jason says, “I think we should enjoy a little prelude before the real fun begins.” He stands and starts to walk toward her.

  Sweat beads across Emma’s hairline. Her fingers curl into her palms; the muscles along her arms tighten, shorten, ready to strike. She looks at Jason. His eyes are stones of hatred, polished evil. I know he can see the terror I’m hiding. The primitive center of her brain screams—Run!

  A sharp stench fills the air—urine.

  “You disgusting bitch, you peed yourself!” Jason backhands Emma across the face. “You should be ashamed.” Covering his mouth and nose with his good hand, he backs away.

  I’d rather die than be raped by that loathsome pig. Shaking from frayed nerves, Emma turns her head toward the opening and intentionally redirects her thoughts. She wonders when the bats they’d displaced earlier will return. She remembers reading that humans owe bats a considerable debt of gratitude because every night each one consumes hundreds of insects. Without them, the insect population would grow to unmanageable proportions.

  Pretending she’s outside looking up at every star imaginable pricking the black sky, Emma wonders, What’s happening at Pines & Quill? Do they know I’m gone? Do they know I’m being held captive by Jason?

  Wondering what’s captivated her attention, Jason’s gaze follows Emma’s to the mouth of the cave. His eyes widen in panic as a billowy whiteness floats into his line of vision. Icy fear twists his heart. As in the woods, the shimmering form floats toward him and then goes slightly out of focus, like an old-time photograph.

  Scrambling across the rock-strewn cave floor, J
ason slips behind Emma in her wheelchair. Grabbing the knife from his pocket, Jason tucks his thumb under the thumb-stud, pushes it up and out, releasing its razor-sharp edge.

  “Take one step closer, and I’ll slit her throat,” he shouts.

  Emma doesn’t hear or see who Jason’s speaking to, but she knows that he’s using her to shield himself from whatever it is. She remains still.

  “Come now, Alex,” the woman with brilliant white eyes and silver skin says. “That’s not any way to treat a woman.”

  “How do you know my name?” he yells.

  “What mother doesn’t know her own child’s name?” the apparition asks. And while slowly backing out of the cave it sings, “And here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop, chip chop, the last man is dead.” On the final note, the foggy, white mass disappears.

  Jason slumps to the floor in relief. “You stink,” he growls at Emma before crawling back to the other side of the cave. He grabs the empty bottle of Jack and holds it to his nose. Inhaling deeply, he wonders, Was that a hallucination from withdrawal? He knows the tremors are. I haven’t gone this long without alcohol since I can remember. Feeling bolstered that it was a hallucination, not a ghost, he shoots a glance at Emma and sneers, “What are you looking at?”

  Mick slips into the squad car behind Joe on the driver’s side so they’re able to see each other in the rearview mirror.

  Before they head out, Joe brings Mick and Toni up to speed on his findings in the homicide database.

  In the rearview mirror, Joe sees Mick’s face turn ashen. If they weren’t blocked from view, he’d also see that his work-worn hands are balled into fists.

  Joe turns to Toni. He sees her sitting rigidly with her eyes trained straight ahead. If I touch her, she’ll break.

  “A serial killer who crossed several state lines,” Mick says. “Officially, this just became an FBI case. But before I make the call, I want to find Emma. Are you with me?”

  “Yes,” Joe says, without hesitation.

  The only response from Toni is a curt nod.

  “I know right where it’s at,” Mick says.

  “Where what’s at?” Joe asks.

  “Blanchard Hill Bat Caves,” Mick responds to Joe’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Right,” Joe says. “Me, too.”

  Breaking her wall of ice, Toni chimes in. “Well, I don’t. Can you let me in on the secret?”

  “I’m a big fan of hiking,” Joe begins. “I don’t do it nearly as often as I’d like, but such is life. Blanchard Hill has it all. Views, lakes, forest, and open areas.”

  Mick picks up the thread. “It’s located on Chuckanut Mountain and is one of this area’s most beautiful natural landscapes. The hikes range from relaxing to grueling,” he finishes, rubbing his leg.

  “There are several access points,” Joe continues. “You make your selection based on the level of difficulty and distance you’re looking for.”

  “Well it’s dark, and I’m not familiar with this area,” Toni says, “so I vote for the one that gets us closest to the destination.”

  “Then we’ll drive to a lookout about halfway up and continue to the peak from there. There are a couple of small lakes along the way, depending on which trail we take. From the parking area, the trail—part of the famous Pacific Northwest Trail—winds upward to the bat caves, and then continues up to the top, Oyster Dome.”

  Once parked, Mick pulls a pair of night optics from his go-bag.

  Toni and Joe exchange glances.

  “Night vision goggles?” Joe asks.

  “Yes,” Mick responds, securing them. Even with the goggles, it’s still dark, but with this technology he can see a person standing over two hundred yards away on a moonless, cloudy night.

  “I wish they’d issue those to us,” Toni says.

  “You can buy them online at most sporting goods stores,” Mick says.

  “I’ll remember that.” She nods.

  Hemingway rests his head, cone and all, on the closed portion of the Dutch door and whines. The hope of table food is evident in his eyes.

  “You want to join us, don’t you?” Libby says, sending his tail into propeller mode.

  Looking from Cynthia to Fran, Libby asks, “Do you mind if I let him in?”

  “Not at all, please let him join us,” Cynthia says.

  “Yes,” Fran agrees. “After all, he’s a hero.”

  “You’re shameless,” Libby says when she lets Hemingway in, but her eyes are full of admiration.

  Wagging furiously, Hemingway eats up the praise as readily as he eats his, or anyone else’s food.

  Fran asks, “Do you think they’ll find Emma?”

  “I have every confidence,” Niall answers.

  “But what if the bats hurt her?” Fran continues.

  “The bats up there are Townsend big-eared bats. It wasn’t long ago that they were nearly extinct. Local conservation teams have taken great pains to keep them off the extinction list, because we need them to play their part in maintaining ecological balance.”

  “Why are they called big-eared? Do they really have big ears?” Fran asks.

  “As a matter of fact, they do,” Niall says. “When Libby and I attended a presentation at Western Washington University a few years ago, we learned that when their ears are laid back, they extend all the way to the middle of their body.”

  “Is that what made you think of a cave right after I finished reading the energy in Emma’s earring?” Cynthia asks.

  “Yes, it is. We watched a slideshow at that presentation, and you described many elements of a cave.”

  Conversation is sparse after that as each person entertains their own thoughts about what Mick and the officers will find at the bat caves on Blanchard Hill.

  As she lowers her gaze to her feet, Emma’s eye catches a shape on the guano-covered rocks. Her heart thunders in her ears. Oh, my God. Is that what I think it is?

  “What was that?” Emma asks. The fear in her voice brings Jason fully alert.

  “What?” he asks, sitting upright.

  “I thought I saw someone at the entrance,” she whispers.

  “What did they look like?” he asks. A sense of urgency staining his voice.

  “It’s hard to tell, but I think it was a man.”

  A surge of relief flows through him. It’s not the ghost. Grabbing his Beretta, he slips a second magazine with thirteen rounds into his back pocket. They think I’m the prey, but I’m the predator. He smiles as the familiar combination of tension and exhilaration grips him. He’s on the hunt.

  Pressing his face to Emma’s he whispers, “Stay here. Oh, that’s right, you can’t walk. And keep your mouth shut,” he warns through clenched teeth.

  With phantom elusiveness, Jason crouches and moves forward in the stygian blackness toward the mouth of the cave.

  Emma takes her chance. She leans forward and picks up the knife Jason dropped when he’d crumpled in relief after whatever he thought he’d seen had left. She has no idea how to operate it and doesn’t want to make any noise, so she slips the open blade under her right thigh, working hard to wipe the smug look off her face before Jason turns around.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Write. Rewrite. When not writing or rewriting, read. I know of no shortcuts.”

  —LARRY L. KING

  Shrouded in darkness, the smell that had caught them in whiffs as they neared the cave, is now a presence.

  “Bat guano,” Joe states the obvious.

  “Let’s make it quick,” Toni says, pinching her nostrils. “It reeks in here.”

  The high-powered beams from their flashlights illuminate rough, damp walls all the way to the back of the enclosure. “There’s only one chamber in this cave,” Joe says as Mick studies the ground looking for possible clues.

  “There’s another cave,” Joe says. “It’s less known because of its well-hidden entrance. Follow me.”

  Outside the air is chilly. Darkness almost obscu
res their view of the town and the bay beyond. The only telltale sign that gives it away are the pinpricks of light. From this vantage point, it looks like a faerie village.

  “It would be easier with a machete,” Joe says while leading them into the next cave. The interior is colorless and strained. Mosquitoes whine around their ears and land on their cheeks and hands.

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t have known this was here if you hadn’t shown the way,” Mick says to Joe. The combined intensity from their SureFire flashlights reveal yet another empty cave.

  “It’s kind of freaky how Cynthia Winters gets those ‘impressions,’” Joe says.

  “What impressions?” Toni asks.

  “She’s a ‘psychic intuitive.’ In fact, she’s been instrumental in helping several law enforcement agencies solve crimes.”

  “Oh, come on,” Toni says. “Quit pulling my leg. Just because I’m a new transfer doesn’t mean you’ve got to bust my chops.”

  “I’m not kidding,” Joe says. “Apparently, Ms. Winters receives energetic impressions from items associated with a case.”

  “I can’t explain it.” Mick shakes his head. “I did a little checking, and Cynthia has a tremendous accuracy rate. She also reads people.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Joe asks.

  “When I picked up this month’s group of authors at the airport, she read their palms. Her accuracy was dead on.” He didn’t tell them that she’d read his palm, too.

  Showing a sudden interest, Toni asks, “Is that why Jason Hughes fought with Ms. Winters on the bluff?”

  “He’s the one guest who wouldn’t let her read his palm,” Mick says.

  “Maybe he has something to hide,” Toni suggests.

  “The only thing I know,” Mick says, “is that Blanchard Hill’s a bust. Let’s head to the next one on the list.”

  Swatting at her neck, Toni agrees. “Yes, let’s get out of here.”

  Libby picks up her cell phone when she hears Mick’s ringtone.