“Please,” she insists as she steadies herself. “I’m fine.”
But she’s not fine. Mills can tell. She’s a petrified woman who has just seen a ghost on fire.
In the distance Gus can see the Superstitions. On a clear day, from the right vantage point, you can see them from Phoenix. They rise red from the horizon, like walls of a fortress, elusive but enchanted. He figures they’re still about thirty minutes away.
“You said the fire makes sense?”
“Yup.”
“How so?”
“An absolutely traumatic event like that can stay with you forever,” Chase replies. “That’s Forensic Psychology 101. We see it all the time, especially with serial killers. Sure, some of them are just mentally deranged, but most seem to have been influenced by something very disturbing in life.”
“You’re right. It’s textbook,” Gus says. “How about you trade me some of your forensic psychology for some of my parapsychology?”
Chase laughs. “I’m good,” he replies. “But thanks.”
“Can I ask your advice about something?” Gus asks.
“Advice? I don’t know that I give good advice.”
“Well, it’s just that I find myself thinking about something we might have in common.”
Chase turns to him and smirks. “You and me? I doubt it.”
“My mother’s dying, I think.”
The guy doesn’t register anything on his face. “I’m sorry. That’s sad to hear.”
“Thanks. But we don’t speak really. I’m kind of having a hard time deciding if I should go see her.”
Chase doesn’t alter his connection to the horizon. He doesn’t turn back to Gus. He doesn’t move his eyes. “You should. I did.”
“Yeah. I heard. You moved your life here to be with her.”
“I did.”
“It was the right decision. . . .”
“It was.”
“Were you close to her?”
Chase’s face turns red. His eyes begin to brim. “Very,” he says. “I held her while she died.”
Gus nods, then feels himself nodding repeatedly. “Wow,” he finally says. “I don’t have that kind of relationship with my family.”
“It’s never too late.”
This is a side of Timothy Chase that most people never see, Gus assumes. He sees that the detective has an archeology like everyone else, but he’s also sure that he’s unwelcome at the site. He can’t even fathom the tools he’d use to dig. Instead, he refocuses on the crime scene at the Superstitions, and he thinks of the tools used by the killer. A knife. A chisel. He concentrates, really squeezes the muscles of his brain until he can conjure up a vision. At first it’s a house. Then an empty room. The place is dimly lit. He sees a bench. With an assortment of knives and chisels. He knows exactly what to tell Chase.
“You’ll find evidence at the Angel Gem Road house associated with Theodore Smith,” he says. “I just saw it.”
Chase offers a shrug. “I assumed we would. If he’s our man. No-brainer, really.”
Mildly offended, Gus says, “What I mean is that I actually saw it just now. A room with a bench and all these tools. And the knives he’s used to kill these women.”
“You think he’s used more than one?”
“I do.” Gus studies the room for another moment. “I see several. Two on the bench, three on the shelf below it. Identical knives, I think.”
“Like some kind of trophies.”
“I have no idea, Chase. That’s your department.”
Chase tells him he’s an asset. He looks at Gus warmly and says, “You’re the first psychic I’ve worked with who seems like a real person. The rest of them act like they’re from another planet.” Then he goes for his front pocket and practically tears it off. “Damn it!” he cries. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”
“What?”
“I must have left my phone at the Circle K.”
“Seriously?”
“Shit. Yes. I got the call about the Superstitions, bought the water, and ran out of there. I think I left it on the counter.”
“You think we can turn back?”
“Of course we can’t turn back,” Chase snaps. “I was wondering why nobody was calling me with an update. What a fucking nightmare.”
Gus offers his phone, and Chase grabs it, dials a frenzy of numbers, and apologizes breathlessly to whoever answers. Gus tries to listen but doesn’t hear anything specific. Mostly a chain of “yes, yes, yes,” and “no, no, no,” from Chase’s end. Then he hears Chase mumble “twenty minutes,” and he assumes that’s their ETA. The detective hands him back the phone.
“Anything new?”
“I guess the locals hesitated when our officers got there, but that’s all been settled. They don’t get a lot of action out there,” he says and laughs.
“Stranded hikers is all, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” Chase says as he accelerates.
Priscilla Smith contemplated the ground below her, in front of her, as if she truly did not know how to move or where to go. Kelly offered her arm, and the older woman took it absently. Mills suspected that the years in prison had cured Priscilla Smith of the need to lean on anyone, and yet, he knew nothing about being a victim incarcerated, of being revictimized by flashbacks of a life that had just taken too many unfortunate turns. “The cave murders? Please, I can’t, I can’t,” Priscilla said to them, or to herself; Mills wasn’t sure. Then the woman put a hand to her heart and shook her head. “No, no, no,” she chanted. “No this can’t be. If I had thought it was Teddy, I would have done something, said something. But I didn’t pay enough attention.”
Mills took her other arm, and he and his wife started to coax her toward her truck, but as they got close Priscilla just stopped, gripped both of them tightly, and said, “If he did this, I did this.”
“I don’t understand,” Mills told her.
“My hands are as bloodied as his,” she said. “I created that monster. I’m responsible for all those women dying. All those young women. And look at me, so old, with a life that has caused nothing but grief.”
“You didn’t cause any of this,” Kelly replied, her voice crisp, insistent, like the lawyer that she is, closing an argument.
“Why don’t you drive with Mrs. Smith,” Mills said to his wife. “And we’ll follow.”
On the ride over, Mills offered details to Bridget.
“Classic abuse,” Bridget said. “Typical battered woman’s syndrome.”
“Interesting how we see in others what we can’t see in ourselves.”
“I’m not a battered woman,” she seethed.
“No. Not in the ‘classic’ sense.”
“Mills, you can go fuck yourself.”
“You wanna hear something totally messed up?” he asked.
“I already have.”
“No. You haven’t.” And then he described the carvings on Teddy Smith’s body. “Not just the symbols,” he told her. “But those words, ‘I love my daddy.’ Sick, huh?”
Bridget said nothing. He watched as her face went white and turned to stone. He saw a butterfly of red break out across her chest and crawl upward, spreading to her neck. “You okay?” he asked. “Looks like a rash.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
Now they’re sitting in a modest ranch house. From the outside it looks more mountain cabin than home, with log accents and pine green trim, but inside it’s a typical family layout: a sparkling kitchen that opens to a family room, and a hallway off to the bedrooms. Big windows in the back look out to a small creek. A stone fireplace rises in the family room. That’s where they are as Priscilla offers them something cold to drink. Mills and Kelly decline. Bridget asks for water and pops a pill when Priscilla brings her a bottle. “Cramps,” Bridget shares.
“I’ve been staying here with my sister, Patty, and her husband since I got out of prison,” she tells them. She points to a counter and a table. “
You’ll have to excuse the mess. They’re on vacation. That’s all their mail piling up.”
“No problem,” Mills assures her.
She’s sitting now in a rocking chair opposite them. “I couldn’t go back to that house in Phoenix,” she says. “Never will.”
“But it’s still in the family.”
“I never sold it. I guess I figured the city would eventually take it.”
“But your son is maintaining it.”
“If you say so. I guess he’s paying the taxes. I’m really not sure.” She looks out the window as though she’d like to escape.
“Any idea what he does for work? How he supports himself?”
“I have no idea.”
Priscilla leaves them for a few moments, and Mills and Kelly say nothing, staring at each other, communicating their anticipation with their eyes only. When Priscilla reappears she is holding a stack of envelopes. They’re five-by-seven manila mailers, and she hands them to Mills. He inspects them, and the notes confirm exactly what Priscilla had said. Her son had been in touch with her throughout her prison stay; he had reached out to torment her. Note after note:
I love my daddy.
I love my daddy.
I love my daddy.
I love my daddy, and if you ever get out I’ll prove it, Mommy.
Mills holds up that one. “What does he mean?”
Priscilla shakes her head. “I have no idea. I think he was threatening me. If you keep reading you’ll see more like that.”
Dear Mommy, you’ll be sorry if you ever leave that prison.
Mills puts the notes aside. “He wanted revenge. Clearly.”
“Right,” Priscilla says. “Proving to me how much he loved his father meant killing me.”
“Or making an even bigger statement.”
The remains at Squaw Peak, he thinks. And her release from prison. Her freedom was his trigger. And the killing began.
Mills sorts through another pile of notes; there are about fifty cards, and all they say is “Dear Mommy” followed by a random collection of symbols. Mills studies the envelopes, the postmarks.
“So, for about eight years the letters came from this address here in Prescott,” Mills says.
Priscilla nods. “Yes. He lived here with my sister and her husband. It was a formal adoption. Name change and everything. But look at the other postmarks, Mr. Mills; he was writing these notes to me well into his thirties and still signing them ‘Teddy.’”
“You changed his name?”
She hugs herself, sitting there in the rocking chair. “We thought we were making it easier on him by changing his name. I mean, the story was all over the news. When we moved him here with Patty, we gave him a whole new identity,” she explains. “Not that he wouldn’t figure out what happened. But he was a kid, and we didn’t want him to be stigmatized, you know, especially when you consider he was a namesake.”
“The last envelopes are postmarked from Phoenix,” Mills says. “He wasn’t necessarily hiding from you.”
She opens her hands. “Apparently he has a life for himself in Phoenix. With the house. And the truck you’re telling me about. He’s officially Patty and William’s son, and the name they gave him should be on everything else, far as I know. Social security card, bank accounts. But maybe not the truck.”
“Damn,” Mills says as a piece falls into place. “The license plate . . . it makes sense. ILMD. ‘I love my daddy.’”
“My son hasn’t forgotten who he is,” Priscilla says as she rises from the rocking chair. “I’m going to get something from Patty’s room that I never, ever look at. Not anymore. If you’ll excuse me.”
Mills stands and holds his palms out. “Wait. Tell me what they called your son. What did they name him?”
She looks back and smiles. “Patty and I renamed him after our father, Timothy. A strong, decent man,” she says. “If my dad had been alive he would have intervened. He would have stood up to my husband. That’s how he was. Kind of a savior to anyone in need. My Teddy became the fourth Timothy in a line of Timothys.”
She disappears down the hallway. Mills glances at his wife who nods and smiles, dispatching silently that her husband has done good. Then he looks at Bridget who abruptly looks away. Suddenly he feels a rising warmth. It’s moving up his arms, across his chest, spreading to his face. It’s a crawling, tingly recognition that makes him leap to the counter and riffle through the mail there. It’s all addressed to William Chase. And Patricia Chase.
“Please have a look at my son,” Priscilla says as she returns to the room and crosses to the fireplace where she holds up an eight-by-ten photograph. “Timothy Chase at his high school graduation.”
The boy looks like the man he’ll become. Unmistakably.
Bridget erupts from the chair and races from the house. Kelly goes after her.
Mills stands there detonating.
37
One strip of cloud, like a contrail, hovers over the Superstitions. It’s a bright white puffy line; the rest of the sky is clear and unbreakable.
“Beautiful,” Gus says.
Chase says, “What?”
“The view.”
“Hmm. You know it’s federal land up there.”
“So?”
“So that means my friends at the FBI will probably be very interested.”
“Yeah, but, this is your case.”
“Of course, of course,” he says. “And it’s a good thing it’s my case. I’m just saying that they will look at this with a vested interest. There will be another layer.”
“I get it,” Gus tells him.
“And, hey, there might be some good connections out there for you. The bureau can always use a good psychic.”
Gus can’t remember the last time he was this far east on Route 60. He’s hiked the Superstitions, but that was ages ago, when he first got to Phoenix. He and Ivy have their favorite trails now, some at South Mountain, some at Dreamy Draw and White Tanks. He watches as signs for Apache Junction and Globe blow by. They still have a ways to go but not as far as Globe. He recognizes the signs for Lost Dutchman State Park; that’s probably where they’ll get off. He should get out here more often, for no other reason than to hide behind the huge walls and detach.
“If you need to get home, Parker, I’m sure someone at the scene can give you a ride back. I think I’ll be out here for a while.”
Gus leans his head on the window. “No problem,” he says. “No plans tonight, so I’m good.”
“No big date?”
“Uh, no.”
“You don’t have a woman?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Maybe you should cut your hair,” Chase says.
“Huh? Cut my hair?”
Smiling, perhaps even measuring the rise he’ll get out of Gus, Chase says, “Well, I’m just saying, that shaggy look from the seventies doesn’t exactly say, ‘Serious guy, here.’”
“What does it say?”
“Kid. You look like a kid. Like a surfer boy who doesn’t want to grow up.”
Gus shakes his head. “I haven’t surfed in years,” he says.
“I can cut it if you want,” Chase says. “I have scissors in the trunk.”
Gus laughs. “That’s okay. This is a classic look for me.”
Chase rolls his eyes. Then he points out a sign: Lost Dutchman State Park—Exit 6 miles. “Remember I have water if you’re thirsty.”
“I’m fine,” Gus says.
“Been meaning to offer it to you.”
“I’m fine.”
His phone rings. He recognizes Mills’s number and picks up.
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“All I can say is wow,” Mills tells him.
“Really? That’s all you can say. What an odd thing to call about.”
Mills doesn’t laugh. He pauses, and Gus tries to intuit the pause but cannot. He senses women, though, women in the presence of Alex Mills. And then Mills says, “We have our man, Gu
s Parker. I’m on the way back from Prescott now.”
Gus gets all chilly. “Seriously? I’m, like, all goose bumps.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I’m in a car. So yes. . . .”
“Timothy Chase,” Mills says.
“What about him?”
“Timothy Chase,” Mills repeats.
Gus can’t speak, but he understands. He can’t move, but he feels a head rush; he doesn’t breathe, but he feels a flash flood of blood in his veins. There’s a free fall in his belly, as if the pieces are actually plummeting into place. “Really?” is all he says. He feigns a calmness, a composure of indifference, but the news doesn’t sit well with his sphincter. His skin truly turns goosey. He wonders if the elevator of red is showing up on his face.
“You don’t sound surprised,” Mills says. “Don’t tell me you knew all along.”
“Not exactly. But I think it kind of makes sense.”
“Makes sense? You’re damned right it makes sense.”
Mills quickly narrates the story of Priscilla Smith. “Chase made up the whole thing about his dying mother,” he says. “Priscilla Smith is alive and well and in my back seat, right now. We’re going to search the house in Phoenix. Tonight. The department’s all over it.”
“I imagine,” is all Gus can say, his mouth as dry as tumbleweed.
“No, you can’t,” Mills tells him and then describes cards and notes Priscilla Smith received in prison and what they reveal about the license plate. “‘I love my daddy.’ Can you fucking believe that? Dozens of cards, he sent her. That shit all over his body. Man, this is crazy. And I’ve seen crazy.”
“Well, then, I should probably go,” Gus says.
“What’s with you, Parker?” Mills asks. “Something wrong?”
“I’m just kind of busy, that’s all.”
“No shit, you’ve been busy, my friend. Did you get my text the other night about the coach? If it weren’t for your hunches I’m sure my kid would be headed for jail.”
Gus feels himself nodding, affirmed, amused, and scared shitless.
“Parker?”
“Okay, then. Call you when I get back.”
Desert Remains Page 36
