And he couldn’t count how many times during their early years he’d made up an excuse to go fishing for trout or hunting for deer. How many times had he lied and told her he was off to take in a playoff game in person? Sometimes if he thought fast enough, he’d fib about taking a vacation trip down to Mexico with his buddies to blow off a little steam. Now that he thought about it, Maitlin tended to eat up a lie quicker than the truth.
It wasn’t until much later that he understood the reason she was so willing to look the other way. Their time together had consisted of nothing but lies on both sides. Sometimes he looked back on those days and couldn’t believe their entire marriage had been such a sham.
As a couple, they’d been pulling away from each other long before the day he’d walked in on her and her coworker—fucking their brains out in his bed. His bed. It had taken him years to get that image out of his head. Only one way, of course, to truly put it behind him—he’d made them go away—permanently.
Her father had asked a thousand questions. But he’d handled the old man because he made sure there was nothing Maitlin’s father could prove about her disappearance. There were no bodies, no pesky DNA to indict him. Hell, he hadn’t even been in town when Maitlin and her coworker—he couldn’t remember his name—took off for parts unknown.
There was tremendous satisfaction in getting away with something so sinister.
Like a lot of people had done over his lifetime, Maitlin had underestimated him. But never again would she get the chance to make a fool out of him. Those days were behind him. It was as if Maitlin had never existed. Unless you count the seven-figure house he’d been forced to live in on a goddamn stupid golf course that he had zero interest in ever using.
If not for Maitlin’s betrayal, he might’ve had the family he’d always dreamed about having. Now, he simply made people with their perfect families go away. He made them disappear like his dreams had disappeared. It was ironic really that families who seemed to have it all paid for Maitlin’s mistakes. That probably seemed unfair, but then life had never been kind to him anyway.
There was something unique about wiping out an entire family. To his knowledge it had never been done before, especially over and over again. At least not on the level he chose to achieve, the way he executed the plan—methodical, purposeful, using his training and creativity to get away with it more times than he could count.
If he was forced to rent a car during those trips, he made sure he returned the vehicle washed and vacuumed. He was meticulous about making sure he left no digital imprint and avoided neighborhoods with surveillance cameras. So far his attention to detail had paid off.
Thanks to his six-figure salary, he had more than enough disposable income to use on his pursuits, his trips, his travels. After all, Maitlin’s life insurance had been in the million-dollar range, once he’d had her declared dead, of course. Five years missing was the benchmark. The old man hadn’t liked him going to court one bit. But the judge ruled that since there’d been no activity on her bank cards, and no investigation about a homicide that pointed to the husband, the money was his.
Not bad for a marriage that had lasted under three years. Maitlin’s father had given him grief about it. But there was really nothing legally the old man could do to stop the process from the insurance company. Lucky for him, the check was issued and put in several bank accounts offshore, making the old man unable to ever get to the money.
As he pulled a few shirts off their hangers in his massive closet, he was still simmering about his failed attempt last week in New Orleans. The break-in hadn’t gone as planned. That was an understatement. Some just didn’t go by the book no matter how hard you tried. He’d attempted to sneak into a big-ass house with plantation-style columns only to encounter the maid as soon as he opened the back door.
He could still hear the fiftyish woman screaming at him at the top of her lungs. “’Lo and behold, whatcha doin’ here inside this house? Get out of here! I’m calling the po-lice on you right now!”
And damned if the bitch hadn’t already had the receiver in her hand to do it.
The fiasco in the French Quarter had prompted him to rethink his entire way of doing things. Maybe it was time for a change in strategy, a shakeup. Even he knew that the same routine could get old, stale. He’d run with this one for almost five years with wonderful success. Mostly. Sure, there’d been a few others that had gone off the rails, things had happened he hadn’t planned for, surprises had kicked in to keep him on his toes. That sometimes had to be expected in his line of work. Like the one that had happened outside Bozeman, last summer. He still wanted another crack at that family.
Good enough reason to send him back to Montana, he decided. As was his habit, he focused on a mission until he’d completed it.
Right now, his focus had turned to Jay and Diana Lundquist. The woman had similar features to Maitlin. But he tried to put those out of his head as he focused more on the couple. The pair operated a successful mom and pop donut/bagel shop in downtown Livingston, a small town outside Bozeman. They had three kids ranging in ages from seventeen down to eight. If he followed his pattern he’d abduct the oldest girl. But so far he could find no indication she was anything but a bubbly cheerleader type who was obsessed with boys. Focusing on the dad might be better—business owner with problems and bills—with no way out but to get rid of his perfect family and take off.
As he finished packing for his next trip, his mind wandered to the business end of things.
He was good at living off the land. His Special Operations training had taught him how to do that and do it well. Now clients paid him to show them how to become a survivalist; knowing how to live off the grid in an unstable world could pay off one day. He held seminars all over the country teaching others to become self-sufficient. Wilderness training was his specialty.
He wasn’t always personable with his clients. Sometimes he had to fake an interest in their sports games, like who won the World Series or the Super Bowl. Truth was, he didn’t give a shit either way. He hated sports. But sometimes he had to force himself to act like he cared. Not a big deal since he was used to faking emotions of all kinds.
Hadn’t he cried big crocodile tears when he sat in front of Maitlin’s father and told him how the love of his life had walked out on him with a man she’d been screwing for more than a year?
He was certain that of all his performances that one had been Oscar-worthy.
Growing up alone had taught him not to invest in anyone but himself. No one had cared about him so why should he give a shit about anybody else? That attitude had gotten him this far. He’d tried that caring crap with Maitlin. And look how that had turned out.
History had told him it was best to keep people at arm’s length. Best not to get involved on the most basic level.
Except for when it came to his protégé. He liked having one. In fact, he should go check on the little bastard now. After all, the basement could still be dank and cold this time of year. It wouldn’t do for the skinny little kid to catch a fever and get sick. At least not before he decided it was time for him to go.
While Brayden had proved himself a couple of times in the field already as a lookout, he didn’t completely trust the teen. But then, he didn’t trust anyone.
So far, he’d only been able to use the boy as a lookout, and only then because of something he’d designed himself, something that assured the teen wouldn’t bolt from his duties.
He’d always found the collar bomb a fascinating but effective tool he’d used in the army. Even more so now that he’d used it to scare the crap out of the young teenager. Or maybe because he liked the extreme callousness of the device. It was diabolical, a terror weapon used by ISIS, something to remind the boy who was in control, something he knew for certain would break the boy’s resistance. On second thought, more like shatter Brayden’s will if he even thought about resisting.
The device had been simple enough to make.
; Using basic three-eighths of an inch thick, zinc-plated chain links, the collar fit snugly around the boy’s neck. It was secured in front by a magnum two-and-a-half-inch laminated steel padlock, with two small-sized galvanized steel pipe bombs welded to the collar.
He’d also added a metal ring attached to a twelve-foot piece of chain, providing enough length so he could shackle the boy to a tree or a post.
Though each pipe bomb was only two and one-half-inches by four-inches in length, both were packed with enough high explosives to blow a large hole in the right and left carotid arteries of the neck causing his skinny little hostage to bleed out in a matter of minutes. That is, if the impact didn’t sever the head from the body.
ISIS had found some success using this type of device since its insurgence in Northern Iraq. But his own little stamp was meant to improve the detonation. He’d taken away the standard remote detonator and used the collar designed for a wireless dog fence to enhance the effect. It worked so well that if the boy did manage to unlock the chain tether—which Brayden didn’t have the guts to even try—there was no way he could travel very far before the thing blew up.
It wasn’t just brilliant construction, but an effective intimidation tool, an extreme psychological weapon that worked because the teenager would never be able to muster up the gumption to attempt a getaway.
He supposed he had Brayden scared enough that the boy wasn’t so bad. He’d known him now for more than a year and had him trained better than most dogs, even more than other seventeen-year-old youths who joined the military at an early age.
But still, Brayden needed a lot of work. The kid still wasn’t comfortable handling weapons. Which was the reason this next field trip would answer a few questions—one way or another. Would he keep Brayden around and for how long? Perhaps the more traditional answer would be to cut his throat and get rid of the teen in the nearest lake.
Only time would tell.
Seventeen
Wednesday evening
Bainbridge Island
After seeing the grandparents off, Skye changed into her workout clothes and headed to the basement gym that Josh had renovated for just that purpose. These days she avoided the machines—treadmill and step climber—and opted for weightlifting and martial arts training.
Because Josh had a meeting on Skype he couldn’t miss, Skye and Sierra prepared to hit the mat together. Mom and daughter often worked out to a mix CD of Pink, Aretha Franklin, and Shania Twain—girl power music combined with a feel-good beat.
Bobbing and weaving, mother and daughter played a kickboxing karate game to a soul-searing, rhythm and blues tune that lifted the energy in the room.
With a heightened drive, a dynamic pick-up in mood, Skye started her routine with a five-pound barbell in each hand. “Kick out, Sierra, just like Mama. See? Do what Mama’s doing. Tonight, we’re kicking the bad guys to the curb.”
Sierra lifted her leg off the floor in a kick as instructed and brought it up the air. The toddler managed to hold it there until she tumbled backward, losing her balance, bouncing off the mat.
Skye scooped her up, lifted her shirt up, and blew a raspberry onto her bare belly. “You are such a super girl!”
She twirled Sierra around as if they were dancing. Once the girl began to giggle, Sierra couldn’t seem to stop.
The two plopped down on the mat, keeling over in roaring laughter.
Josh found them like that. “I see my girls are going wild tonight. Leave you two alone and you revert to your wolf instincts.”
Skye lowered her voice. “Don’t tell Sierra but I’m trying to tire her out so she’ll sleep.”
“Mama’s the one who needs to sleep through the night,” Josh corrected. “Maybe you should try a sleeping pill.”
“No pills. Besides, where would I get said sleeping aid?”
Josh shrugged and grinned. “Leo has connections.”
She laughed. “Leo is a man of many talents. That’s one I didn’t know he had.”
Josh turned to go, but stopped. “Oh, I came down here for a reason. I thought you’d want to know that Harry called. The air search paid off. They spotted the Chevy. It’s down a fifty-foot drop-off, wedged into a rocky ravine.”
“How long will it take for them to bring it up?”
“Apparently someone spotted it this morning. They pulled it out of the embankment about an hour ago. It’s on the way to the crime lab for testing.”
“How is it possible no one saw the car before now? Did it catch fire?”
“No. That’s the weird part. But Harry says we’re welcome down at the forensic lab to watch them go through the vehicle tomorrow morning.”
“Wow. Cool. That’ll be a new experience. We wouldn’t need a sitter for that, right? We could bring Sierra with us.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You could try and pick up on what happened in the car that night,” Skye urged.
“That’s an idea.”
“Uh, on second thought bringing her with us won’t work. I just remembered Sierra’s reaction when she was at the Maldonado house sitting in the car. We agreed that we wouldn’t get her near that kind of thing again. So I’ll let you watch them tear the vehicle apart.”
“Why don’t we just drop her off at the Artemis Foundation and let Lena watch her for a few hours? This place is right around the corner from there. We shouldn’t be gone that long.”
“Sure. I’ll text Lena and ask if it’s okay. Look, I was thinking about something. How about we get everyone together for an end-of-the-week cookout Friday night? Maybe an old-fashioned fish fry down on the beach.”
“Great idea. It’d be a good excuse to try out the grill Mom and Dad bought us last Christmas.”
“That, and pick a few brains while we’re at it. We need to come up with a solid backup plan just in case Emmett lets us down again. We have to go into this prepared, Josh. We can’t show up in willy-nilly fashion like we did that day charging in after Whitfield.”
“The problem is we have no idea how this will play out or when.”
“I may not know where or when. But the one thing I’m sure of is whenever it takes place it won’t happen here in Washington State but somewhere else. He’s not sitting around the Pacific Northwest waiting for us to show up. He’s back home, wherever that is, living his evil existence and no one is the wiser. We still have to identify him and then go wherever he is.”
Skye noticed the worried shadows around Josh’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been thinking about those Monopoly game pieces. The other day in my office I mentioned them to Leo. He told me about a book he’d read several years back written by a supposed hired assassin for organized crime during the ’40s and ’50s. The author, from Europe, was a prevalent force back then. The guy decided to write about his experiences as a hired gun, including the legends that went with it. Leo says there was a solid protocol between hired killers. Back then, they stuck to certain habits, certain etiquettes and customs that amounted to an assassin’s code of honor. This guy’s book included several infamous killers from the Sicilian mafia and the Russian mob, all highly touted as ‘pros.’ These guys stood out because of what they left behind—tokens at the scene. Each one had a particular token assigned to him. They’d use these little mementos to let everyone know the kill belonged to them and that no one had the right to take credit for it except that particular assassin. No one could claim a kill unless he’d left his own special mark behind. By the 1960s the practice had become so commonplace that the military snipers began to do the same thing. I’m wondering if our guy has adopted the practice as his own.”
“Wow. Monopoly tokens left at a crime scene. I guess he improvised. It makes sense that he doesn’t want anyone getting credit for something he did, something he’s obviously proud of doing.”
“You look wiped out. Why don’t you take a shower and get ready for bed? I’ll put Sierra to bed.”
She rallied to her feet and drap
ed her arms around his neck. “That sounds wonderful. I’ve just been rattled by this case. Right now, I look forward to crawling into bed.”
But that night, sleep stayed just out of reach, replaced by a string of nightmarish dreams she could only interpret as warnings.
She was in a place surrounded by snakes. The creep crawly things were everywhere. Soon they began to slither and coil around her body, slowly, deliberately making their way upward, wrapping around her neck, then looping around her head. She struggled with the viper creatures, doing her best to extricate herself out of their grasp. But as the moving tangled vines became more and more, she realized there were too many.
From somewhere behind her a shot rang out. Blood, bright and red, oozed out of her side. Her body was on fire. She could feel her life force slipping away. The lack of blood made her dizzy, then sick to her stomach, and finally a plummeting, sinking feeling that she was drifting away.
She sat up in bed, dripped in sweat and tried to catch her breath.
Wide awake now, the images were still so vivid and strong, she couldn’t shake off the danger. She knew snake dreams represented a foreboding, a warning. They ran the gamut of fear, stress, even death.
The dream had been so disturbing she couldn’t get back to sleep, didn’t want to be in bed, didn’t want to risk drifting off again.
Skye swung her legs to the side of the bed and decided she needed help. She’d seek out advice from her father. Travis would know what it all meant. But to her, it seemed clear enough. She’d seen her own death play out and not for the first time.
Instead of seeking comfort in Josh’s arms, she snuck into the walk-in closet to get dressed. After pulling on a pair of sweat pants and a pullover top, she decided to keep all this to herself for now. The fear and self-doubt were enough to threaten the peaceful life she’d built with Josh and Sierra. She didn’t feel like dumping that on him in the middle of the night.
Truth in the Bones Page 18
