by J. R. Ward
“No.” The nurse smiled again, revealing perfect white teeth. “He’s ready for you.”
“Still, I’ll just wait until you’re—”
“Stay. I’m happy to leave you two together.”
Reilly frowned, thinking, What, like the pair of them were dating?
The nurse turned back to Kroner, uttered something in a quiet voice and stroked his hand in a way that made Reilly slightly nauseous. And then the woman came forward, growing more and more beautiful—until she was so resplendent, you had to wonder why she wasn’t a model.
And yet Reilly just wanted to get the hell away from her. Which made no sense.
The nurse paused at the door and smiled once more. “Take your ti. TrusHe has everything you need.”
And then she was gone.
Reilly blinked once. And again. Then she leaned out and looked around.
The guard glanced up from his seat. “You okay?”
The hallway was empty except for a crash cart, a rolling bin full of soiled linen, and a gurney with no one and nothing on it. Maybe the nurse had just gone into another room? Had to be it. There were units on either side of Kroner’s.
“Yup, just fine.”
Ducking back in, Reilly pulled it together, and focused on the patient, locking stares with a man who had killed at least a dozen young women across the country.
Bright eyes. That was her first thought. Smart, gleaming eyes, like you’d find on a hungry rat.
Second? He was so small. It was hard to believe he could lift a bag of groceries, much less overpower young, healthy women—but then again, he’d probably used drugs to help incapacitate his victims, cutting down on both the escape risk and the noise. At least initially.
Her final thought was . . . Man, that was a lot of bandage. He was all but mummified, strips of gauze wrapped around his skull and neck, square pads taped to his cheeks and jaw. And yet even though he looked like a work in progress out of Frankenstein’s lab, he was alert, and his skin color was positively radiant.
Unnaturally so, actually. Maybe he had a fever?
As she approached the bed, she held up her identification. “I’m Officer Reilly from the Caldwell Police Department. I’d like to ask you some questions. I understand you’ve waived your right to have counsel present.”
“Would you like to sit down?” His voice was soft, the tone respectful. “I have a chair.”
As if she were in his living room or something.
“Thank you.” She pulled the hard plastic seat over toward the bedside, getting close but not too close. “I want to talk to you about the other evening, when you were attacked.”
“A detective already did that. Yesterday.”
“I know. But I’m following up.”
“I told him everything I remembered.”
“Well, would you mind repeating it for me?”
“Surely.” He pushed himself up weakly and then looked over as if he wanted her to ask whether he needed help. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat. “I was in the woods. Walking slowly. Through the woods . . .”
She wasn’t buying the acquiescence and accommodation for an instant. Someone like Kroner? No doubt he could turn on the poor-me for as long as it suited him to do so. That was how psychopaths like him worked. He could be normal, or certainly convince others, and maybe even himself for periods of time, that he was just like everyone else: a composite of good and bad—where the “bad” didn’t go further than fudging on your taxes, or speeding on the highway, or maybe talking smack behind your mother-in-law’s back.
Not killing young girls. Never that.
Masks never lasted, though.
“And you were headed where,” she prompted.
His lids lowered. “You know where.”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“The Monroe Motel and Suites.” There was a pause, his lips growing tight. “I wanted to go there. I had been robbed, you see.”
“Your collection.”
There was a long pause. “Yes.” As he frowned, he covered up whatever was in his stare by looking down at his hands. “I was in the woods and something came at me. An animal. It was from out of nowhere. I tried to beat it off, but it was too strong. . . .”
How’d that feel, you bastard, she thought.
“There was a man there—he saw it happen. He can tell you. I picked him out of the photographs yesterday.”
“What happened with the man?”
“He tried to help me.” More with the frowning. “He called nine-one-one. . . . I don’t remember . . . much . . . else—wait a minute.” Those beady eyes got shrewd. “You were there. Weren’t you.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about the animal.”
“You were there. You watched me get put into the ambulance.”
“If we could stay with the animal—”
“And you were watching him, too.” Kroner smiled, and the Mr. Nice-and-Normal pretense slipped a little, a strange calculation entering his eyes. “You were watching the man who’d been with me. Did you think he’d done it?”
“The animal. That’s what I’m interested in.”
“That’s not alllllll you’re interested in.” The all had a singsong lilt to it. “It’s okay, though. It’s all right to want things.”
“What kind of animal do you think it was?”
“A lion, a tiger, a bear—oh, my.”
“This is not a joke, Mr. Kroner. We need to know whether we have a public safety issue.”
Having studied interview techniques, she figured she’d give him an opening to be a hero. Sometimes suspects like him would play the game in hopes of ingratiating themselves, or trying to gain trust they would later enjoy violating.
Kroner’s lids dropped low. “Oh, I think you’ve taken care of the public just fine. Haven’t you.”
Yeah, assuming he didn’t flee this hospital, and the system slammed a prison door on him for the rest of his natural life. “It must have had fangs,” she said.
“Yes . . .” He touched his ruined face. “Fangs . . . and big. Whatever it was—it was overpowering. I still don’t know why I survived—but the man, he helped me. He’s an old friend. . . .”
Reilly made sure that her expression didn’t change in the slightest. “Old friend? You know him?”
“Like recognizes like.”
As a chill rippled down her spine, Kroner lifted a hand up and stopped her from speaking. “Wait—I’m supposed to tell you something.”
“And what is that?”
Those bandages on his face crumpled up as if he were grimacing, and that hand went to his head. “I’m supposed to tell you . . .”
Considering he didn’t know her at all, that was impossible. “Mr. Kroner—”
“She had long blond hair. Straight, long blond hair . . .” He took a labored breath and batted at his temple as if he were in pain. “He’s stuck on the hair . . . that blond hair with the blood on it. She died in the tub—but that’s not where her body is.” Kroner’s head went back and forth on the pillow. “Go to the quarry. She’s there. In a cave—you’ve gotta go deep to get to her. . . .”
Reilly’s heart started pounding. The scope of her interrogation was supposed to be limited to the night of the attack, but there was no way she wasn’t following up on this one. And no reason why Kroner would know that Cecilia Barten was a case she was working on.
“Who are you talking about.”
Kroner dropped his arm and suddenly his color took a turn toward the gray spectrum. “The one from the supermarket. I’m supposed to tell you this—she wants me to tell you. That’s all I know—”
Abruptly, he started to shake, the trembling in his torso escalating until he jerked back into the pillows and his eyes rolled into his skull.
Reilly lunged forward and punched the call button and intercom. “We need help in here!”
From out of the seizure, Kroner shot a hold onto her wrist, those unholy eyes of his glowing. “Tell hi
m she suffered. . . . He has to know . . . she suffered. . . .”
CHAPTER 27
Back at HQ, in the evidence room, Veck went through everything there was of Kroner’s collection, filing away in his mind snapshots of the objects. Unfortunately, there was nothing that he’d seen in the photographs at the Bartens’ that matched any of the jewelry or other things.
Stepping back, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Shit.”
“There’s still more,” the investigator said. Without looking away from what he was doing, the guy threw back the drape that covered all that had yet to be cataloged.
Veck took a drink from his cold coffee, went over, and leaned in at the hips. No touching, of course, so good thing it had all been laid out side by side. More jewelry . . . more hair ties with strands of black and brown and pink stuck to—
His phone went off, and he pivoted away to answer it. “DelVecchio. Yeah, yup . . . uh-huh . . . yup, that’s me. . . .”
It was Human Resources, verifying his information before they sent out his first paycheck. As he rushed through the questions, he thought, no offense, but he had better things to do.
When he was finally off with them, he turned back around to the tray. He’d been so sure that Sissy had been taken by Kroner. Fucking hell—
From out of the investigator’s latexed grip, a gold glint flashed as whatever it was got put under the microscope.
It was an earring. A small, birdlike earring. Like a dove or a sparrow.
“Can I see that?” Veck said hoarsely.
But even without the closer look, he recognized what it was . . . from the Bartens’ bookcase, that close-up of Sissy when she’d been unaware she’d been photographed. She had been wearing an earring just like it.
Maybe she’d been wearing that exact one.
His phone rang again just as the investigator held up the piece of evidence.
When Veck glanced at the screen and saw it was Reilly, he immediately accepted the call. “You’ll never believe this—I’m looking at Sissy Barten’s earring.”
“In the Kroner evidence.” It was a statement, not a question.
Veck frowned. Her voice sounded all wrong. “Are you all right? What happened with Kroner?”
There was a brief pause. “I . . .”
Veck stepped away from the investigator, going into a corner and turning his back to the guy. Dropping his voice, he said, “What happened.”
“I think he killed her. Sissy. He . . . killed her.”
Veck’s grip squeezed down on the phone. “What did he say.”
“He identified her by the hair and the Hannaford.”
“Did you bring any photographs of her? Can we get a positive—”
“He went into a seizure in the middle of the interview. I’m outside the ICU right now and they’re working on him. No telling whether they’ll pull him through or not.”
“Did he say anything else—”
“The body’s somewhere in the quarry. According to him.”
“Let’s go—”
“I’ve already called de la Cruz. He’s going over there with Bails—”
“I’m leaving right now.”
“Veck,” she bit out. “This case is no longer missing persons. You and I are off of it.”
“The hell we are—she’s still mine until they find a body. Meet me there so you can suspend me if you want. Or even better, come to lend a hand.”
There was a long, long pause. “You’re putting me in a terrible position.”
Regret made him grind his molars. “I seem to excel at that when it comes to you. But I have to do this—and I promise not to be a pain in the ass.”
“You excel at that, too.”
“Stipulated. Look, I can’t pull out of this until I at least know what happened to her. I don’t have to be all up in Kroner’s face if we find something and I won’t touch a goddamn thing, but I’ve got to do this.”
Another interminable pause. Then: “All right. I’m on my way. But if de la Cruz shuts us out, we’re not fighting him, clear?”
“Crystal.” Veck sent up a prayer of thanks. But then . . . “Did he say anything else? Kroner, that is?”
There was a rustling, like she was switching the phone from hand to hand. “He said he knew you.”
“What.”
“Kroner said he knew you.”
“That’s a fucking lie. I’ve never met him before in my life.” When there was nothing from her, he cursed. “Reilly, I swear. I don’t know the guy.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t sound like it.” And for some reason, her opinion didn’t just matter; it was dispositive. “I’ll take a polygraph.”
Her exhale sounded exhausted. “Maybe Kroner was just screwing with me. It’s hard to know.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“Something along the lines of ‘like recognizes like.’ ”
Veck went dead cold. “I’m not Kroner.”
“I know. Here, let me get to my car and start driving. The quarry’s on the far edge of town, and we might as well get in on the ground floor if de la Cruz will let us. I’ll see you in a half hour.”
As he hung up, the investigator glanced over from the microscope. “Get what you need?”
“I think so. Let me know if you find anything on that earring? I have a feeling it’s from my missing girl.”
“No problem.”
“Where’s the ‘quarry’?”
“Take the Northway south about twenty miles. I don’t know the exact exit, but it’s marked. You can’t miss it, and there are signs that’ll take you in.”
“Thanks, man.”
“It’s a good place to hide things, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Unfortunately.”
Five minutes later, Veck was on his bike and roaring off toward the interstate. No reason to call de la Cruz ahead of time. They’d just do the showdown face-to-face when he arrived.
The exit in question appeared fifteen minutes later and read, THOMAS GREENFIELD QUARRY. The signs were easy to follow, and no more than a couple miles later, he was turning off and following a small dirt road that had trees tight to its flanks. In the summer, they would no doubt form a romantic canopy; at the moment, they looked like skeleton arms clawing at one another.
He cut the speed back as he rounded a fat right-hander that gradually climbed higher and higher. Wind whipped around, cold and stark, and the clouds seemed to close in as if to choke the ground. He was beginning to think he was lost when he crested the rise, and there it was.
Quarry? More like the Grand fucking Canyon.
And members of the CPD as well as the Caldwell Fire Department had already gathered: Two search and rescue vehicles. A couple of squad cars. An unmarked that had to be de la Cruz. A K-9 unit.
Veck parked a ways away and made no bones about his approach as he came up to the huddle of men and women and dogs.
De la Cruz peeled off from the core and came toward him. The detective’s permagrim expression didn’t shift in the slightest. Then again, he couldn’t be all that surprised, and the arrival was hardly happy news.
“Fancy meeting you here,” de la Cruz muttered. But he put out his hand for a shake.
“This place is huge.” Their palms met in a clap. “Betcha can use some help.”
The quarry was easily a mile across and a half mile down—and more of a natural formation than anything left over from a mining operation. Three-quarters of its walls were solid drops, but the one to the south was a nasty-looking slope that was marked by boulders, scruffy brush . . . and a lot of dark holes that had to be caves.
“So are you going to let me work?” Veck demanded.
“Where’s your partner.”
“On her way.”
De la Cruz glanced back at the tight band of colleagues. “We’eeping a light crew on here because we don’t want any attention. The press gets word of this, we’re going to have a field day with the rubberneck
ers.”
“So is that a yes?”
De la Cruz nailed him right in the eye. “You don’t touch a goddamn thing, and you don’t go out until Reilly’s here.”
“Fair enough, Detective.”
“Come on—you might as well join in the planning stage.”
Jim’s old place was not all that old and not his, either.
He’d rented the garage and its second-story studio apartment from an ancient guy in a butler’s suit after he’d first come to Caldwell, and when he’d pulled out about a week ago, he’d assumed it was for the last time: His former boss, Matthias the Fucker, had been breathing down his neck, and he’d been Boston-bound to fight the next battle with Devina.
But really, what went according to plan? Matthias was no longer in the picture, Jim had returned to Caldwell, and he and Adrian needed a secure place to stay.
Hello, old haunts, as it were . . . And it was time to pray that the owner hadn’t gone in to find the rent money and key that had been left behind.
Pulling his F-150 into the long drive that led to the place, he checked to make sure Adrian was still behind him on that Harley—and the guy was. Together, they passed the owner’s vacant but perfectly maintained farmhouse and continued down the lane, cutting through a rolling meadow that had to be a good twenty acres in size. The garage was far back on the property and had probably been used to house farming equipment and mowers, with a caretaker living above. He’d gotten the impression when he’d leased it, however, that it had been empty for a while.
Stopping grill first at the big double doors, he got out, grabbed one of the drag handles and threw his weight into it, wondering whether the place would be—
The panel rumbled open on its tracks, revealing a perfectly clean cement floor and a raw beam ceiling more than tall enough to park a horse trailer in.
Jim got back behind the wheel and let the engine’s idle take him inside. And Adrian was right on his ass, parking the Harley and yanking the door shut behind them. As the gray light of day was cut off, Jim killed the motor, sprung his door—
The clean, fresh scent of flowers invaded the air. To the point where he nearly retched, even though the smell was arguably beautiful.
