by Inger Wolf
Angie reached for her phone on the table and called. "Hi, boss, it's me."
She said nothing for a long while; their boss apparently had a lot to tell her.
"Yeah, it's a horrible mess," she said. "But I just wanted to hear if we've found that carpenter here in Anchorage whose name begins with H-A? You know, the guy that bought the dollhouse in Talkeetna. No? Shit! It was just a thought. Yeah, we'll be in tomorrow morning. We're waiting on the techs."
She listened again, nodded, then ended the conversation.
"That carpenter could be involved. I'd love to have a chat with him. People recommend carpenters and plumbers to each other, he could have been in Asger's house and then in Griffin's later on. Or vice versa."
"But, let's say he knew them, then it would be more than just a robbery that got out of hand. It would be some sort of perversion, killing families. And he would want to say something with the dollhouses, right?"
Suddenly, someone knocked at the door and they both jumped.
"Are you expecting anyone?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Ian. Open up, it's fucking cold out here."
She breathed out and took her hand off her pistol. Then she opened the door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
IAN STEPPED IN, his stocking cap pulled down over his ears. He was about to say something when he noticed Trokic. For a moment, he looked surprised and a bit uncomfortable at finding a man with Angie. A flash of hostility appeared in his eyes, then vanished. He was good-looking, Trokic could see that, and he wondered if there was something going on between Angie and him. They seemed comfortable with each other, but that could just be a sign of a long friendship. Trokic was certain, though, that Ian wanted there to be something going on. The tech glanced dubiously around her humble abode.
"So, this is where you live?"
"Just shut up," Angie said.
He smiled and pulled his stocking cap off. "Am I breaking in on something here?"
"No," Angie said, unconvincingly. "Come on in. You have any news? Hopefully good."
His head rocked back and forth a bit, as if he didn't know what to say. Then he sat down and noticed their food and drink. "I could damn well use a drink and something to eat. We haven't had time for anything. Not that the crime scene helps your appetite, all those bodies."
"Sure, of course, I'll get something for you," Angie said and stood up.
"What a slaughterhouse," Ian continued. He shook his head. "We weren't even finished with Asger Vad's house, and now this. So much for any time off."
Angie poured him whiskey, set a plate with a knife and fork in front of him, and sat down beside Trokic. Her cheeks reddened, and he caught the scent of her hair. Clean, the smell of shampoo. Homey.
"But it looks like the same murderer," she said.
"Yeah, but the dollhouse is different," Ian said. He downed half his glass of whiskey. "I don't think the same person made it. It looks older, more primitive. And it's smaller. There's a serial number on the bottom, so it's probably a factory job."
"And the dolls inside?" Trokic said. "Are there three of them?"
Ian mumbled yes and massaged his temples, as if a headache was on the way. "It looks like they come from the same place. All ratty and smelly like the others. But I can't be sure until we've had a good look at them, of course. Maybe the killer had a little ugly dollhouse when he was a kid, then a nicer one later on. Except that boys don't have dollhouses. Jesus, my head's all fucked up."
Trokic sipped at his wine and felt himself unwinding. They were safe. Then the thought of Marie gnawed at him again.
"What about the main house?" Angie said. "You've checked it out, right?"
Ian nodded. "We got a search warrant immediately for the whole property. The guys are still at it out there, and I was actually on my way into the station to write a preliminary report. But then I thought you might be home and needed to talk. It wasn't one damn bit easy getting your address out of your boss."
"But have you found anything out?" Angie said, impatient now.
"Everything looks normal. No sign of Marie, but I wasn't counting on that, either. There's one thing I stumbled onto, though. There was a map in a box under Griffin's bed."
"You have it with you?" Angie said.
"No, it's in the van, locked up. You can take a look at it tomorrow."
"What about the map?" Trokic said.
"I'm not really sure. It's obviously a hunting map; it's been marked with a blue pen, and I showed it to Sean, 'cause he hunts a lot, and he said they were great places to hunt. He sounded like he was almost impressed. One thing made him wonder, though."
"Yes?"
"Someone made a mark in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere between Soldotna and Homer."
"But isn't it good hunting out around there?" Angie said. "I think I've heard that."
Ian downed his whiskey. "Sean said it was sort of complicated. Some places you're not allowed to hunt, other places are okay, but only at certain times or for certain animals. But that's how it is most places. What made him wonder was, why would Griffin drive all that way when there were other good places a lot closer. But what do I know? Maybe there's something special to hunt there. Sean didn't know."
Ian looked skeptical as he dipped a piece of chicken in sweet-and-sour sauce and ate it.
"Okay, we'll have to keep that in mind," Angie said. She shrugged. "Maybe they met some fanatic hunter psycho and pissed him off. But it could mean that Griffin knew who killed Asger since he was so eager to barricade himself in."
"But why didn't he tell us when we talked to him?" Trokic said.
Angie pushed her plate away, poured them both another glass of red wine, and rolled ChapStick onto her lips. "Those kind of people have their own agendas. Maybe he didn't want us to butt in."
"He should have. He should have thought about his family."
Angie's phone rang. She listened shortly, mumbled yes and no a few times, then hung up. Her eyes were wide. "That was Smith. A couple has just called into the station. They were out driving on Seward Highway this afternoon and stopped at a parking area to look at the view. They found a lilac-colored kid's mitten that could fit an eleven-year-old."
They both stared at her; her eyes were shining with eagerness.
"And?" Ian said. "Couldn't it belong to any kid? We both know how much traffic there is on that road, some of the heaviest in the state."
She shook her head. "No, there's a small label inside, a brand, and they looked it up on the net when they got home because they were suspicious. It's Danish. I can't remember the name, but Smith checked it himself, and no one in Alaska sells it. So, we can be pretty sure it's Marie's. There aren't that many Danish kids her age here."
"That means she's been out of the vehicle," Trokic said. "The killer didn't just drive by and throw the mitten out the window."
"That's what I'm thinking too," Angie said. "Of course, he could have had it in his pocket and it fell out when he got out of his car. But there's something else, there's some vomit not far from the mitten. Troopers are on the way out there to get a sample. My guess is, she was carsick and got out of the car for a moment. And that means this is the first sign we have that Marie's alive."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MARIE WOKE up holding her breath. Like all the other mornings, anxiety gripped her the second she saw where she was. It was getting light outside. From the bed, she saw the sun creeping in through the window and glimpsed the snow-clad pine trees and small lake not far from there. It looked like something from a fairytale her mom had read to her. But there wouldn't be anyone out there to save her. Her foot sticking out from under all the blankets was freezing. She wrinkled her nose; it smelled weird in there. Like paint.
She looked over at the sleeping man and swallowed. She needed to find the key to the door. The thought of what she had to do panicked her; if he caught her again, he would be mad. Madder than ever, she sensed. Maybe he would re
ally hurt her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow—and loud, too loud, she feared. She had to be brave for her mother's sake. For a moment, she imagined burying her face in Zenna's fur, making all this disappear. Then came the image of the dog outside, hitched to a small sled she could hop on. Zenna was strong, strong enough to pull her all the way home to Anchorage.
Slowly, carefully, she slid out of bed and pulled her clothes on. First her pants, then her lilac-colored fleece sweater. She squeezed her eyes tight for a moment to stop the tears. Hunger gnawed at her, and she had to pee so bad, but she didn't dare go to the bathroom; she might make noise that woke him up. It would have to wait.
She was startled when she walked into the living room. He'd taken the nature photography down and painted most of one wall pink. Something black, like part of a big fly, had been drawn in one corner. It was only half-finished, only one wing, but the legs on one side were so big that she could see the small hairs on them. He had done all this after she went to bed. She shivered, her teeth chattered. Something was wrong with him. Do you think I look like a fly? he'd said.
And the room was a mess. While in bed, she'd heard him drinking and mumbling to himself. The table was covered with empty beer cans and dirty clothes were scattered on the floor and draped over a chair. But there was something else; he'd been so drunk that he forgot to take his keys with him. They lay on the table, and she snatched them up.
She pulled on her boots, her coat, and finally her stocking cap. She looked for her mittens, but then she remembered that she had lost one when they'd stopped on the way there. Far too long ago. She'd have to do without. It was still quiet in the bedroom. For a moment, she hesitated, then she slowly turned the key. The cold wind whistled faintly when she opened the door; her heart nearly stopped. She hurried outside and closed the door.
Immediately, her senses sharpened, and again she wondered why he didn't keep a better eye on her. Maybe he didn't care so much anymore. Or was it because they were so far away from everything? The quiet was complete except for a slight hiss as the snow drifted. And something that sounded like a bird screaming. Her cheeks and lips tingled from the cold. She turned around to make sure the man wasn't following her, then she ran down the path.
The freezing cold stung her lungs, fear pounded inside her. What animals could there be here? Maybe if she knew even generally where she was, she would have an idea. Several years ago, her teacher had talked about which animals lived in the different regions of Alaska. And except for the Arctic animals, the polar bear, for example, most of them were found everywhere. Black and brown bears, lynx, coyotes. Had the bears hibernated, or were they waiting for the first big snow? Mostly, she was afraid of the wolves, who hunted in packs and could rip their prey apart in no time at all. With their amazing sense of smell, they would be able to sense her from far away.
They had learned how to react if they saw a bear. Clap your hands and sing a song, so the bear knew you were a human. And moose. Run as fast as you can. But one of the kids in class asked, what do you do with wolves? The teacher had looked skeptical and talked about trees. But what if there weren't any trees, or what if she couldn't climb them? The trees here were too skinny, the branches wouldn't hold her, and she would fall straight down into the wolves' bared teeth.
She found out right off the bat that it was hard to run in the snow. Even though it was packed a bit where the man had driven his big pickup, she tired out quickly. Her lungs burned, her muscles stiffened, and sweat ran down her back.
After only a few hundred yards, she had to slow down and eventually begin walking. How long was this road? Where did it end? Up until now, she hadn't seen so much as a bird, and there was nothing but trees in sight. Would she be able to hear his pickup in time if he set out after her? If he drove slowly, would she have time to hide behind the trees?
For a second, she fantasized that her parents had never moved to Alaska. All this would never have happened. But she couldn't remember Denmark very well, and there weren't any mountains, which she loved.
Suddenly, she found herself in an open area. The road tracks continued. She stopped abruptly and hesitated. She would be way too visible in her lavender coat if she went out there. But she had no choice. Then her heart leaped—there they were, the mountains. But which mountains? As she ran down the track, she tried to judge their shape and height. She didn't know how far they'd driven. The peaks didn't look like the Chugach Mountains. Not the part of the range near Anchorage, anyway. They had taken countless hikes on the many trails close to town. On the other hand, the range was around three hundred miles long and sixty miles wide, and she could be practically anywhere in all that area. Taking into account how far they could have driven, and that the mountains were so close, she figured they must be south of Anchorage. She swallowed; wolf country. Once she had peeked at a film she wasn't supposed to see, about a man who crashed in a plane and ended up being torn apart by the ferocious animals.
She had almost reached the next stand of trees, when she heard in the distance the voice that made her blood run cold. "Mariiiieee!"
She choked off a scream and turned to see where he was. But there was no one in sight. She looked around the clearing, everywhere. And then again, "Mariiiieee!"
It sounded as if he yelled something else, but he was too far away, and the snow muffled his voice. Immediately, she ran off to the right, in between the trees. The much-too-thin trees, too bare, too far apart. She ran in between stumps and large roots sticking up. She sank in the snow to her knees, and she gasped for breath as she trudged farther on, looking for a place to hide. Finally, she found shelter behind the roots of a fallen tree covered with snow. She sat down and stuck her icy hands into her armpits. Her heart pounded. Suddenly, it was much too quiet, which was almost worse than when she could hear him calling. Now she didn't know where he was; he could be very close before she saw him. All he had to do was follow her tracks. Sneak up on her. She sat quietly, willing the snow to drift and cover her trail. What would he do to her if he found her? And why had he stopped calling her "kiddo?"
Then she heard the far-away sound of a growling engine. His pickup. Her teeth began to chatter; he was on his way.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
TROKIC LOOKED out across the briefing room used by patrol units and for bigger cases such as this one. Several men in light blue uniforms sitting at the long white table looked uneasily at Mark Smith, who was fumbling around to get the projector going. He and Angie stood off to the side under the flag and a poster, ready to step in when questions came up. The swelling in her face was almost gone, leaving behind the wound, which looked better.
"State troopers," Angie whispered to him. "They patrol everywhere outside the larger towns. Several of them are wildlife troopers, they enforce wildlife laws and law in general in the wilderness." She lifted an eyebrow. "They get further out into the sticks than anyone. By plane, boat, snowmobile, every kind of transportation you can imagine."
Trokic looked them over and wondered what it would be like to patrol all alone in such an enormous wilderness, with wild animals and hunters. Magnificent, lonely, tough. It wasn't for sissies, he was sure of that.
Finally, the projector illuminated a map of the area south of Anchorage. Trokic had seen it before, but now this concerned Marie, and he tried to memorize all the geographic details. West of Anchorage began a long fjord, Cook Inlet. A chain of volcanoes rose up to the southwest, while to the north lay the flat Matsu Valley, which they had driven through to get to Talkeetna and Thereza Mendell. A highway ran south of Anchorage, around the area adjoining Turnagain Arm, then to the Kenai Peninsula. Trokic thought it looked like the head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The peninsula and the area leading up to Anchorage was dominated by mountain ranges. The sight of it all made his heart sink; how would they ever find an eleven-year-old in such a rugged wilderness?
"Finally, this piece of shit projector is working," Smith said. "Okay. Everyone's here now, I'm assuming. We're here to focus our sear
ch for Marie Vad. We were contacted by a couple yesterday evening, they found a Danish mitten at a parking area along the Seward Highway.” He zoomed in on a spot far south of Anchorage. “We suspected immediately it could be Marie's, and we sent an officer out to her school today. At least four of her friends have confirmed it's hers. There are also several items of the same brand of clothing in the Vad family's house."
"What about the vomit found close to the mitten?" Angie asked. "Any progress with that?"
Smith brightened. "We're testing the DNA. We suspect it comes from Marie, but we're not sure yet. Maybe she got carsick. We hope so, at least that would mean she was alive at the time, and she might still be."
"Maybe there'll be traces of an anesthetic, too," Angie said.
"Exactly," Smith said. "We're looking at that."
He frowned and zoomed out, then he nodded over towards a tall, red-haired trooper in his mid-forties at one of the tables. "Sgt. Ellis is heading up the search south of Anchorage, which we're going to intensify. Ellis, can you fill us in on the details?"
The red-haired man stood up. He looked uncomfortable. His muscles bulged against his light blue shirt as he trudged up in front of them.
"Terrible case." He sighed. "My daughter goes to school with Marie, same grade, different class. This has been tough on us at home. I don't hardly know what to say anymore. I'm hoping I can tell my family soon that we found Marie, and she's safe and sound. Every day I come home has been torture. My daughter doesn't understand."
He paused for a moment. Someone cleared their throat, and most of them looked focused and angry.
"All right then." He sighed again, loudly. "As most of you know, almost every available trooper has been out searching the last few days. We've kept an eye on all the roads, all the towns from Girdwood to Homer to Seward, the rangers in Kenai have gone over every inch of the park, we've checked the cabins we're aware of, flew over a lot of the area with helicopters. But this is no easy search, we all know that. And the weather the last few days hasn't helped. We've had one day of halfway decent weather, but now it looks like it's going to hit us again."
