But the DNA would give it away eventually. So why desecrate the body?
The detective understood, of course, that sometimes with the criminally insane, there was no specific reason for why they did what they did. But the almost uniform size of the oval cuts combined with the regular pattern made her believe that there was some sort of logic to it, twisted or otherwise.
She made a note to herself to ask Mahoney to run the pattern and the oval cuts through the ViCAP files to see if they had ever surfaced before, and then she followed the gurney bearing the corpse around the side of the house. As first light appeared in the sky, she saw that the media had descended on the scene.
Captain Quintus was on the front porch, and she went to him.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Lots,” Aaliyah said. “I just can’t tell you if any of it’s usable yet. You?”
The homicide captain shook his head, looking drawn and exhausted.
Mahoney joined them, said, “Quantico computer lab called me ten minutes ago. The bugs Mulch put in the house? They were designed to transmit through Cross’s wireless network, but where the feeds went is anyone’s guess at this point.”
Sampson came out of the house holding his phone. “Alex still isn’t answering. He doesn’t even have his phone on. We can’t track him.”
“Probably why he doesn’t have it on,” Mahoney said.
“He’ll call in eventually, though, right?” Aaliyah asked.
“I don’t know,” Sampson replied. “Sounds to me like he’s on a mission.”
“Can I put out a bulletin on him?” Aaliyah asked. “Request that he be detained for questioning?”
“Questioning?” Sampson said. “For what?”
Aaliyah held up her hands. “Just doing my job here, Detective. I’d be asking the same thing of anybody who saw two murdered family members in the same day and then fled.”
“We know Alex Cross a whole lot better than you do, Detective Aaliyah,” Mahoney fired back. “He isn’t fleeing. He’s hunting.”
“While suffering from a closed-head injury?” she said calmly.
“We don’t know that,” Captain Quintus replied.
“Really?” she said. “You all certainly sounded sure of it last night.”
Silence descended on the group for several seconds before Quintus said, “I won’t put out a bulletin.”
“But Captain—” Aaliyah began.
“End of discussion, Detective. I won’t do it.”
CHAPTER
23
THEY HEARD SHOUTS FROM down the street. Several of the reporters and cameramen behind the barricade were having some kind of dispute.
“Another subject, sir?” Aaliyah said, turning away.
“Go on,” he replied.
“I think we need the media on our side,” she replied. “We need to tell them about the kidnappings and about Mulch, put his picture from the fake driver’s license on television.”
“That could open up a whole other can of night crawlers,” Sampson protested. “My nickel opinion: the less they know, the better.”
“I agree,” Mahoney said.
“I don’t,” the homicide captain said. “Detective Aaliyah’s right. We have to get them involved now. Someone somewhere could have seen Cross’s kids, or his grandmother, or Mulch.”
“Do you want me to talk to them?” Aaliyah asked. “The reporters.”
“My job, Detective,” Quintus said. “Go get some sleep. All of you. You’re no good to Cross or his family if you can’t think straight.”
The homicide captain went down off the porch and out onto the street.
“Sorry if I stepped on any toes or poked any sacred cows,” Aaliyah said to Sampson and Mahoney.
“Apology accepted,” the FBI agent said wearily. “We’re a bit sensitive when it comes to Alex. He’s one of a kind.”
“I know,” she said. “Alex Cross is one of the reasons I wanted to become a cop in the first place.”
Aaliyah climbed off the porch then, thinking that what she’d said was true. She’d read about Cross’s exploits as a teenager and admired him almost as much as she admired her father.
The detective cringed. Her dad. Bernie. She’d promised herself she’d go knock on his door this morning. But she was simply too exhausted to make the hour-long drive.
Down on the sidewalk, Captain Quintus had an army of reporters surrounding him. Aaliyah went in the opposite direction, heading to her car.
As she got in and pulled out into traffic, her thoughts kept returning to Cross’s last words to her. Mulch has us heading in the general direction of hell.
Us? Who was with Cross?
Mulch has us heading in the general direction of hell.
What did that mean?
On the one hand, it could be a figure of speech.
On the other, it could mean that Cross had communicated with the madman. Couldn’t it? Or was that just a figment of her tired and frazzled imagination?
CHAPTER
24
“DON’T FRET, MARCUS,” ACADIA chided. “You know Cross’ll call you ’fore too long.”
“I told him to call right back, and it’s been hours,” Sunday said coldly, looking straight ahead from the backseat of the Durango, watching out the windshield as Cochran drove them along that muddy road in the forest toward Harrow’s place.
The rain had stopped. Dawn was coming on.
“He’s got no choice,” Acadia said. “Cross will—”
“I know he’ll call,” Sunday snapped at her. “The question is, why is he waiting so long? What’s his angle? What’s he doing?”
“Three birches coming up,” Cochran said, and slowed to a stop.
Acadia handed Sunday another gym bag, said, “You’re sure it’s smart to end this all so soon?”
“We’ve made our point in Cross’s mind,” Sunday said. “Time to take care of loose ends and move on. That’s how this game works, right? We keep moving. We keep everything in motion. That way, Cross stays off balance, can’t focus, can’t even find a target.”
Acadia shrugged. “Your game. Your rules.”
Cochran said, “Fifteen minutes?”
“Make it twenty,” Sunday said, and got out of the car.
As the day brightened, he climbed down the bank, found that overgrown logging trail, and followed it again to the ledge above the clearing and Harrow’s shack. Sunday saw wisps of smoke rolling lazily from the stovepipe and did not pause, continuing down the steep slope until he was at the edge of the yard.
Right on cue, the door opened slightly and the Rottweiler came bounding out. He circled Sunday, who stood stone still and let the dog wind him for a scent that might indicate a weapon. When the dog barked that he was clean, Sunday set off for the door, which opened wider.
He climbed the stoop past the chain saw and the gas can and closed the door quickly behind him, calling to Harrow, “Your dog’s taking a dump.”
“Long as it ain’t in here,” Harrow said, sitting down at the table. “You got the extra hundred K?”
“You get in and out clean?” asked Sunday, sitting down too and noticing the mirror was there again.
“Wasn’t in that alley more than a minute, tops,” the skinhead said. “You better have that extra we talked about.”
“I’ve got it,” Sunday said, unzipping the gym bag, opening it so Harrow could see the stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills, and setting it on the table. Then he dug in his pocket and came up with a packet that he tossed on the mirror. “Brought you a present too, for a job well done.”
Harrow seemed instantly more interested in the packet than the money. “That blue crystal from AZ?”
Sunday nodded. “The real Breakin’ Bad stuff, like before.”
“Oh Lordy,” Harrow whispered, eagerly opening the packet to reveal blue crystals that he spilled onto the mirror in a small mound. “Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy.”
The skinhead took up a razor, began tapping the cr
ystals, and cut himself two big arcing lines of it. Then he reached in the gym bag, tugged out a hundred-dollar bill, and was rolling it up when somewhere outside the shack the Rottweiler yelped and started to whine.
“Fuck,” Harrow said. “Fuckin’ stupid bastard.”
“What’s the matter?” Sunday asked.
“Oh, I told you before, only thing causes Casper to make any noise ’cept that low growl is when he’s gotten into a porcupine or a skunk,” Harrow said. “Fuck.”
The dog yelped again, and for a second, Sunday thought the skinhead was going to get up. But instead, Harrow looked back to the mirror, brought the rolled bill to his nose, leaned over, and snorted both lines, one in each nostril.
Harrow’s head jerked back. His eyes stretched wide as a series of shivers worked through his body before this strange trembling smile came to his lips; it made that wormlike scar on his cheek look like it was alive and squirming.
“Ahhh,” Harrow said, highly pleased. “Little different than the last batch, but after the night I had, it just about makes things right.”
“Glad you like it,” Sunday said.
“Like it? I love it, man,” Harrow said, cutting another line and snorting it. Then he got up, blinking, and started toward the door, saying, “You can bring old Harrow the Breakin’ Bad blue anytime you—”
The skinhead stopped in midstride, and his hand shot out for the counter. He caught it and steadied himself.
“You all right?” Sunday asked with concern.
“Yeah, just … diz …”
Harrow weaved on his feet and then toppled backward onto the floor. His mouth went slack, his tongue lolled, and his eyes turned glassy and roaming.
CHAPTER
25
SUNDAY GOT UP, ZIPPED the gym bag shut. He went to the door and opened it, saw the Rottweiler lying on his side, slobber dribbling from his lips. There were two small darts hanging from the dog’s left side. Cochran was walking toward the shack carrying a dart gun.
“Took two to drop that sonofabitch,” Cochran said in awe. “That’s a bear dose, dude.”
“Get the darts, and then come in here and help me find the money I gave him yesterday,” Sunday said as he reached down and picked up the chain saw and the gas can, which was nearly full.
He carried both inside. Harrow was still on the rough plank floor, rolling his head slowly and trying unsuccessfully to speak. Sunday stepped over him and set down the chain saw and gas can.
Cochran entered the shack, shut the door, and looked around at the squalor. “Not exactly a skinhead Suzy Homemaker, is he?”
“Start with the bedroom,” Sunday said, grabbing Harrow under the armpits and dragging him six feet closer to the woodstove.
“I should have brought the gas mask,” Cochran said before pushing aside a blanket that hung in a doorway and disappearing behind it.
Sunday got one of the butcher knives from the washtub on the floor and used it to cut two long narrow strips of fabric from the busted couch. Setting those aside, he picked up the can and poured gas on the floor and splashed it on the chest and legs of the skinhead.
Harrow’s eyes widened. He managed to say, “No.”
“Coming down off the first jolt, I see,” Sunday told him in a conversational tone. “Mixed a bit of Rohypnol and a horse tranquilizer in with the blue.”
Holding the gym bag from the day before, Cochran came out of the bedroom. He glanced at Harrow without pity. “Not exactly a rocket scientist either. Put it under his bed.”
Sunday set the gas can down. “Skinheads don’t like banks. Jews in control of their destiny and all that.”
Sunday opened the woodstove door, was relieved to see that the fire was down to dully glowing coals. He took a strip of fabric and swung one end in onto the coals. He laid a small log in there to hold it. After positioning the rest of the strip down the front of the stove and onto the rough-hewn floor, Sunday took the other piece of couch fabric, soaked it in the gas, and then laid it end to end with the strip coming out of the woodstove.
“No,” the skinhead whispered.
“Don’t you fret none,” Sunday said, adopting Acadia’s accent. He tossed the knife back in the washtub. “With all that dope running in your veins, you won’t feel a thing. Or not much, anyway.”
Sunday grabbed the other gym bag off the table, went to the kitchen, and looked out the window. The dog was still lying there. The rest of the yard was empty. He nodded to Cochran. They went outside, shutting the door behind them without a glance back at Harrow.
“Torch the barn?” Cochran asked.
Sunday shook his head. “Leave it. There needs to be direct evidence of his involvement.”
They hurried into the forest. At the rock ledge, Sunday paused a second to look back and was pleased to see through the window that flames were already dancing inside the shack of Claude Harrow.
It was tough Harrow had to end up like that, and so soon, he thought. Neo-Nazi serial killers are difficult beasts to find, much less seduce, and—
His burner phone rang.
Sunday saw a number he did not recognize. But he’d given the number to only one person in the world.
He punched Answer and said coldly, “What kept you, Dr. Cross?”
CHAPTER
26
I PAUSED BEFORE ANSWERING Mulch, still debating how best to play him. Finally, affecting a sullen monotone, I said, “I got hung up. Finding a son’s body in the backyard tends to do that to a man.”
“Hmm,” Mulch said in that static-blurred voice. “And you told the police what I asked you to do?”
“No,” I replied. “Per your orders, I’ve told no one.”
“So you do understand?”
“I understand. I agree to your terms.”
“Excellent,” Mulch said. “Your surviving family members will very much appreciate your actions. So let’s set a deadline, shall we? Say, twenty-four hours?”
“Thirty-six,” I said.
“Twenty-four,” he replied.
“I can’t just do it. I have to develop a plan.”
“Thirty hours,” Mulch shot back finally. “And remember: I want proof. Video proof. And you damn well better be full in the frame, or there’ll be one less Cross come tomorrow night. By the way, this is the last time this number will work.”
“How exactly am I supposed to get proof to you, then?” I demanded.
“Go on Craigslist New Orleans an hour before the deadline,” he said. “Click Casual Encounters and look for a personal ad from TM in the men-looking-for-women section. E-mail the video to the poster.”
He hung up.
Setting down the phone I’d bought at a truck stop near Richmond, Virginia, the night before, I looked at Ava, who was curled up in a ball in the passenger seat. She looked played out.
I said, “You can leave anytime you want, you know. No hard feelings.”
Acting a little insulted, Ava said, “I’m not going anywhere except with you.”
I started the unmarked car. “All I’m saying is that, at some point, you might want to bail, and if you do, it’s okay. I will never hold it against you. Ever.”
Ava said nothing, just reached over and turned up the heat. We were in a campground in Glen Maury Park, three miles off Interstate 81, west of Lynchburg. She’d driven the entire five hours to get there while I’d used Jannie’s computer to go through the flash drive I’d taken from the task force. The drive contained all the files and leads the six-investigator team had generated since my family was taken, as well as my own research into Thierry Mulch.
We’d gotten to the campground around three in the morning and found it empty. We’d slept, me in the front seat, Ava in the back beneath my jacket. I am a big man, and the front seat was probably the most uncomfortable place I have ever slept. But I passed out almost immediately and didn’t stir until I heard Ava get out to go to the outhouse.
The five hours of sleep had evidently let my deep subconscious digest t
he bizarre and violent events of the prior day as well as everything I’d managed to read during the long ride to the park.
Now, in the gathering light, my short-term plan of attack seemed as plain as day.
CHAPTER
27
THE VERY FIRST TIME Thierry Mulch contacted me—by letter, during the investigation into the massage-parlor murders—I’d done a long Internet search and found only a handful of men spread out around the country who had that name. Every single one of the Thierry Mulches checked out, and none of them looked remotely like the red-bearded, red-haired man who’d shown up at Sojourner Truth.
There was also one other Thierry Mulch I’d come across, in an obituary. He’d died in a terrible car crash at age nineteen in West Virginia.
Had someone adopted the dead Mulch’s identity? Maybe the man who had my family used the name only when he was dealing with me.
The dead Mulch was an extreme long shot, but we were going to check it out.
I put the car in gear, left the park, got back on I-81, and headed north toward the interchange with I-64 near the border with West Virginia. We stopped at a truck stop near Covington later that morning, and I bought gas, food, and coffee and withdrew another five hundred dollars from an ATM.
When we were well into West Virginia, almost to Lewisburg, Ava finally said, “Where are we going?”
“A small town called Buckhannon.”
“Does it have to do with Mulch?”
“It might.”
“Was that Mulch you were on the phone with this morning?”
“Yes,” I said, as if I were talking about the paperboy and not a psychopath. But my only hope was to be dispassionate about doing what Mulch wanted, seeing it as a means to an end and nothing more.
After another long silence, Ava asked, “What does he want proof of?”
Hope to Die: (Alex Cross 22) Page 7
