On Friday night, Kate caught at D'Amico's arm as he went past her. He looked at her as if he had never seen her before.
"You've got to give me something to do," she said, in what she had intended to be a demand but that came out a plea. "I'm going crazy here."
After a minute, he asked, "You have waterproof clothes?"
"I can get some."
He took a pen from his pocket and leaned over the desk, wrote a few words, and handed her the paper.
"Tomorrow morning, they start at first light. Go past the motel about half a mile. Give that to the man in charge. And get a jacket with a hood. They might not spot you quite so quickly." He walked away before she could thank him. Kate abandoned her filing and went to buy herself clothes to scramble over hills in. She did not think for a moment that they would find Jules anywhere near the motel, but it was better than sitting inside under the headache-inducing fluorescent lights.
Kate had already been forced to rent an anonymous small car when word got out among the press that she was driving a Saab convertible - a car that stood out in rainy Portland. She had gritted her teeth over the cost, and she winced when she saw the price tag on the jacket, a parka combining the most modern materials with traditional goose down, but the monetary penance seemed appropriate, and at least she would not collapse because of the cold and wet.
And cold and wet it was, beating the bush, working on an ever-widening circle out from the motel, covering her assigned segment before staggering back to swallow hot drink and food, not even able to indulge in the luxury of camaraderie with the other exhausted searchers lest she be recognized, then zipping her coat again and going back out into the miserable afternoon. The rain turned into a dispirited sleet before dark. One of the search dogs slid into a frigid stream and was taken away for a rest. A volunteer cracked his head open against a branch; another took his place. Half-frozen mud glued itself to the outside of Kate's new boots; inside, blisters formed on her feet despite doubled socks. Her knees ached, her hands were raw, one cheekbone was black and blue from an incautiously released branch, and the left sleeve of her expensive parka bore an already-fraying patch of duct tape to keep the feathers from drifting out of the rip it had suffered at some point.
The next day was Christmas. During their breaks, the searchers ate turkey and pie until they could burst, but they found no sign of Jules.
On Kate's third day, the search parties split in two and shifted their centers of operations east and west of either side of the freeway. Kate went with the easterly party, farther up into the foothills. They found articles of clothing by the bushel, skeletons of various animals, and a few fresh animal corpses. One of those last caused a great convulsion of fear and excitement among the searchers, until it was determined to be the flayed remains of a deer, stretched out by scavengers among the dead leaves. The search went on.
Dogs and helicopters and human eyes traversed the hills in the filthy weather. Searchers faltered and dropped out, some of their places going unfilled now, six days after Jules had disappeared. Gray hopelessness was in all their minds. Everyone knew they were not going to find her, and the knowledge made the physical strain nearly unbearable, until only the habit of determination kept them at it, step by step, one tree, one boulder, one stream at a time.
After nine days, beneath a low sky dribbling wet snow, the search was called off. Had it been likely that Jules had simply wandered away, the search would have continued, but the chances of this were minuscule. Someone had taken her, and despite the total lack of evidence, people from one side of the country to the other knew who that someone was, if not his actual identity.
There were news cameras at the center of operations to record the closing down of the hunt, and Kate in her exhaustion failed to dodge them. One minute she was trudging through the mire of the field turned parking lot, exchanging a few cliched but deeply felt phrases with two fellow searchers, a young brother and sister who had driven three hundred miles from eastern Washington to join the hunt. The next minute, a shout went up, and before she could make her escape, she had the pack on her heels, with shouts of "Inspector Martinelli!" and "How do you feel about the search being called off, Kate?" and "What will you do now?" being hurled at her from these strangers. She pulled her hood back up over her face, put her head down, and pushed her way through the microphones and pocket tape recorders to her ordinary-looking rental car. She had unlocked the door when a gloved hand came into her line of vision, covering the handle.
"Get your hand off this car," she said in a low voice, not looking up. The hand drew back quickly, and she had begun to pull the door open against the weight of the people standing against it before her mind registered the question that she had been asked. She looked up into his expensive newscaster's face, and despite his superior height and her complete dishevelment, what he saw in her eyes made him step back onto his cameraman's toes. "What was that?" she asked him.
"I said, Do you know where Jules Cameron is?"
Two years before, in another lifetime, Kate might have responded, might have given way to incredulity and fury, might even have attacked him. She had been through the wars since then, though, and by now not responding to the media was as automatic as breathing. She tore her gaze from his, shoved the filthy door back against their immaculate coats, and fell into the car. They continued to shout questions at her as she started the engine and put the car into gear; then they fell silent, looks of eager astonishment on their faces when she braked suddenly and rolled down the window. They surged forward, and she waited until they were beside her before she spoke.
Then clearly, for the benefit of their recording devices, she said, "For the record, no, I do not know where Jules Cameron is." She hesitated for an instant before adding, "I wish to God I did."
Rolling up the window, she drove off, reflecting that at least "Inspector Martinelli said she did not know where the girl is" sounded slightly better than "Inspector Martinelli refused to comment." Some of them might even relent and include her final phrase. Beyond that thought, her mind refused to look.
It was difficult driving while wearing slippery oversized boots and bulky ski mittens, so before she reached the freeway, she pulled over to strip off various garments and lace on her lighter shoes. Had she not stopped, she would probably not have noticed the olive green car until it pulled up beside her in front of her motel, but in the mirror she saw it brake for an instant before accelerating past her, and when she saw the driver hide his face by lifting an arm as he went by, she knew that some enterprising reporter had decided to tail her. Too bad I didn't think of it earlier, she reflected grimly as she pulled off the gloves and bent down to the soggy laces. I could have led them off like the Pied Piper and given the other searchers a chance to get away. As it is, the search teams are in for a round of Kate Martinelli questions. Casting a mental apology over her shoulder, she struggled out of her boots and drove off in her stocking feet, too tired to bother with other shoes.
With a depressing sense of inevitability, she saw the green car in her mirror, pulling out of a dirt road behind her, keeping well back. It took her half an hour and several illegalities before the reporter's nerve broke and she lost him, but the effort cost her the last shreds of her energy. When she pulled up in front of the hotel, she was trembling with fatigue and her head was throbbing along the line where the pipe had hit her skull. She retrieved her shoes, abandoning the wet boots and gloves, and dropped the car keys twice - once when she pulled them from the car-door lock, then again when she was digging in her jeans pocket for the key to her room - before she made it to the safety of her room. She let her shoes fall to the floor, fumbled with the bolt and the chain until they were fastened, and walked blindly across the sterile room to the bathroom. She went inside, then came back out to look across the room with dull incredulity at the still figure standing near the window. "Lee?"
FIFTEEN
"Hello, Kate," Lee said in a small voice. "You look… Oh God, Kate. You didn't
find her?"
Kate didn't bother to answer, just stood, trying to absorb the sight of the woman standing beside the chipped veneer table, dressed in a flannel shirt, a puffy down vest, khaki trousers, and hiking boots. Her hair was down to her shoulders now, longer than it had been even in university days, and the arm cuffs of her aluminum arm braces had been covered with a solid band of Indian beadwork, a bright, complex pattern that drew Kate's eyes; they were easier to look at than Lee's face. Lee said something. Kate blinked, shrugged off her heavy parka, and tossed it in the direction of the bed, where it fell slowly to the floor.
"Sorry, I have to…" She knew she sounded idiotic, but she could not help it, and so she turned and went back into the bathroom. The toilet flushed, and when she came out again, Lee had not moved.
"I'm sorry," Kate repeated. "I don't seem to be working at top speed. What did you say?"
"Nothing that can't keep. You should have a hot bath and something to eat."
Kate made an effort to rouse herself.
"Sounds heavenly."
"I'll start the bath running." Lee moved then, using the arm braces to steady herself rather than throwing her entire weight on them. Lee was walking, actually walking, not hobbling anymore, moving easily around the end of the bed and past Kate, an arm's reach from her, then going into the bathroom. Kate heard the water start and sat down on the overly soft mattress. She thought about reaching for the phone and checking in with D'Amico, thought about lifting her foot up and peeling off the sodden, filthy socks, thought about Lee actually walking, and then she turned and lay down on the nylon bedspread. Kate was asleep before Lee came out of the bathroom to ask her about room service.
Fourteen hours later, the telephone woke Kate. Lee already had it and was speaking into the receiver in a low voice.
"She's still asleep. Do you think I —"
"I'll take it," Kate said. She put out a hand and said into the phone, "Martinelli here."
"Kate, Al." She sat up sharply on the bed.
"Is there —"
"No news," he was already saying. "Not about Jules. I need to talk to you. I'm coming over."
"What is it? Something's wrong."
"Not on the phone. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When she had hung up, Kate realized that she was wearing little but her knit cap and her corduroy shirt, which looked clean but stank of old sweat. She wondered how on earth Lee had managed to maneuver her wet jeans and socks off without waking her.
"You were out cold," Lee said, having read her face, or her mind. "The phone rang an hour ago, and you never twitched. Feel better?"
"I feel filthy. Al's coming over. I'd better have a shower first."
"Your clothes are unwearable. Better take something of mine. And don't tell me they won't fit, because they will. Just roll up the cuffs." Kate had her doubts, but it was true, laundry had been fairly low on her priorities the last few days, and her own clothes were so stale as to be offensive. And to her surprise, when she pulled on the jeans after her long and blessed shower, she found that they did indeed fit. The mirror told her the half of it, and a survey of Lee the remainder.
"You've put on weight," she said, sitting on the bed and pulling on a pair of Lee's socks. "It looks good."
"And you've lost some. Rosalyn told me you had a new image, sort of punk, she said. Actually, I think it's more a tough-guy look than punk, with that hat."
"Marlon Brando. Wait'll you see me in my tight T-shirt with the pack of cigarettes tucked in the sleeve. When did you talk to Rosalyn?"
"She wrote me a while back."
"I see. Did she tell you anything else about me?"
"Such as what?"
"Anything. Recently."
"Not recently. And really, it was only a passing mention, a month or so ago. I think she said you'd been there for Thanksgiving dinner."
"I was, yes. We had a good time."
"Did Maj cook?"
"Of course."
"I'm sorry I wasn't… Kate, it's… I'm so… Oh shit," said this woman who rarely swore. "Would you come over here? Please."
Except for the palm of her hand, and a couple of cheek-pecking hugs, Kate's body had not been in voluntary physical contact with another person for four months. It was awkward at first, no denying that. Too much had happened, and too many questions lay unanswered for it to be easy. However, there was no denying that touch, even with a woman Kate had cursed and resented and wanted to do violence to more than once over the past months, was a good and glorious thing. The familiarity of Lee's body slid past her defenses, and she was beginning to relax into the curves and angles when footsteps sounded in the hall outside, followed by a sharp rap at the door.
Flustered, she pulled back, then shot out an arm when Lee swayed insecurely. She steadied her, picked the arm braces off the floor and gave them to Lee, then went to let her partner in.
He came in, his eyes sliding past her to Lee. His tired face lit up.
"Lee! Woman, it's great to see you." He took three steps and enveloped her in a hug of his own, so that when Kate turned back from closing the door, all she could see of Lee was a pair of hands emerging from behind a plaid wool coat. She picked the braces up from the floor again, then waited until Al stepped back, his hand firmly on Lee's elbow until she had her arms in the beaded cuffs.
"You're looking great, Lee. The woods agree with you."
She acknowledged his remark with a nod, but her thoughts were all on him. She put her hand out and touched his arm. "Al, I was devastated when I heard. Is there anything I can do? Can I help Jani?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Can I let you know?"
"Of course. Kate said —"
Lee was interrupted by another knock at the door. Kate answered it and found a young woman in the uniform of the cafe next to the hotel. She was carrying two large brown bags.
"You ordered breakfast?"
"Did we order breakfast, Lee?"
"Yes."
"Come on in," she said. "I didn't know you delivered."
"We don't," said the young woman laconically, dropping the bags on the small table and pocketing the money Lee held out. An expensive breakfast, thought Kate, closing the door.
Lee had ordered for Al as well, eggs and bacon and toast, only slightly leathery from the delay. Al took off his heavy coat and sat on the bed, Lee and Kate took the chairs, and they were silent until the food was nearly gone. Lee looked up first from her Styrofoam plate.
"I assume that if there had been any change, you'd have said something."
"No change. No sign whatsoever."
"There was a rumor yesterday at the search site," Kate said. "Someone may have seen a car?"
"D'Amico thought he'd found someone who saw a pickup with two people in it enter the freeway from the motel ramp just after midnight, the passenger small like Jules, but it's so vague as to be useless. Light-colored, full-sized pickup, it could have been from anywhere other than the motel. By the time the FBI finished questioning him, he wasn't even sure it was this exit."
"She vanished into thin air," Lee said quietly.
"Not under her own power she didn't."
"You're certain of that?"
"The dogs traced her to the back of the motel, period. She got into a car and was driven off."
"Got, or was put. Would the dogs have been able to track her if she'd been carried around the motel rather than walked there?"
"The handlers said yes, but that the animals wouldn't have seemed as confident as they did, if she'd been carried."
"And this killer, the Strangler. Could it be - I'm sorry, Al. You don't want to go over it all again."
Actually, Kate thought, he had seemed more comfortable now than when he had first appeared at the door.
"Lee, you couldn't possibly make it worse than it already is. Yes, it could be the serial killer who's working up here. Jules fits the physical description of his victims. He always takes them from near freeways, and there's no doubt he's moved south f
rom where he first began."
"But?"
"The 'buts' are very thin. This guy normally kills immediately, takes his girls away, and lays them out ritually in a place they're sure to be found within a few days. Always within a twenty-mile radius of where they disappeared. And then a few days later, some police station in the area will receive an envelope with five twenty-dollar bills in it. The first one, two years ago, had a typed note saying it was for burial expenses, but since then it's just been the money. And that, by the way, is a tight secret. You're not to speak of any of this to anyone. You, too, Kate. The FBI would string me up if they knew I'd told you two."
"Of course."
"Anyway, no note, no money, they haven't found her —" His forced attitude of detached professionalism slipped, and he choked on the word body. He cleared his throat and started again. "There are also indications that she left the motel, if not deliberately, then at least under her own power. Mostly the things that are missing - her shoes and coat she'd have taken even for a short trip out of doors, but probably not her hairbrush, and certainly not her toothbrush and her diary."
What is your word for the day, Jules? Kate wondered, and was hit by a wave of the grief and guilt that had dogged her every moment of the last ten days. To push it away, she shifted in her chair and asked, "You don't think she went off on her own, though?"
"No. She'd have left a note. I think someone took her, and I think he had a weapon, because there was no sign of a struggle and I know Jules would've raised bloody hell unless she had a damned good reason not to."
"How did he get inside her room, or get her to come out?" Lee wondered.
"I don't know."
"What is it, Al?" Kate asked. "You had a reason for coming over here.
His right hand went spontaneously to the pocket in his shirt, and Kate did not need the look of embarrassment on his face to know that it was time to brace herself. Hawkin had been a smoker when she first met him, and she had quickly come to be wary of what that gesture meant.
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