by Jan Burke
“I don’t follow you,” Dalton said, holding his position.
“The man’s as good a friend to me now as you’ve been, Stinger. Remember me telling you about Irene’s husband?”
At that, Dalton lowered the gun.
“Let us come in out of the rain, Stinger, and I’ll explain. Unless you think I’ve turned into a liar, you’ve got no reason to keep me standing out here.”
“Haven’t seen you in a long time, Jack,” Dalton said.
“Bullshit. I was out here just a month ago. By the way, keep in mind that this is the guy that lets me borrow his dogs.”
“Your neighbor’s dogs—”
“Oh, yeah — I almost forgot! I’ve brought a couple of dogs that would like to see you again.”
Dalton’s face broke into a grin. “Bring everybody in.” He turned and went inside.
Jack motioned to Travis, who started the van.
“What do you think of him?” Travis asked, as they turned up the drive.
“I think Jack is pretty free about introducing my dogs and talking about my wife to head cases. But if Jack says Stinger’s a good friend of his, I’ll try to reserve further judgment.”
Travis said nothing, but Frank didn’t miss his look of unholy amusement.
Deke and Dunk sprang from the van and charged toward Dalton, who was back out on the porch, without the gun. To Frank’s amazement, though, they slowed as they neared him, and approached with ears back, tails wagging — suddenly well mannered. Dalton spent several minutes praising and petting them, to their obvious delight.
He stood up and extended a hand as Jack said, “Doug Dalton, this is my friend Travis Maguire, Irene’s cousin.”
“You don’t look old enough to shave,” Dalton said.
“He’s traveled all over the state,” Jack said, “working as a storyteller.”
“Storyteller!” Dalton said, but catching Jack’s eye, kept any further comment to himself. He turned to Frank. “You must be the cop.” There was no rancor in it, though, and his handshake was firm, his smile welcoming.
“Stinger taught me all I know about dog training,” Jack said. “He’s met Deke and Dunk when we stopped by here on our way to go camping and fishing. He’s also the best helicopter pilot I know of, and protected my butt on more than one occasion when we did a little riding together. Now he protects me from the fiercest opponent I’ve ever encountered.”
Dalton smiled. “I’m his tax accountant.”
“Tax accountant!” Travis said. “How many people come all the way out here for tax advice?”
“Besides the ones that live out here or who contact me by fax or modem?” Dalton asked. “Just a bunch of old bastards on Harleys.”
Travis looked stunned.
“Not everyone on a hog is a hell-raiser these days, you know. Bunch of CEOs on ’em now. And as for hell-raising, a lot of us just got tired of that shit. Plenty of cops ride,” he added, casting a glance at Frank.
“Sorry, not this one. But we’re not here about—”
“My apologies about the welcome,” Stinger said. “I just happen to appreciate privacy. Come on in.”
Just before they walked through the door, though, Frank’s cellular phone rang. He excused himself and stayed on the porch to answer it, uncertain about being able to pick up a signal inside Dalton’s fortress.
When he rejoined the others, they were seated around a plain, thick oak table at the center of a large, open room. The few other furnishings were equally spartan.
Jack took one look at his face and said, “What’s wrong?”
“That was Pete. The group up there is getting smaller — a little while ago, a botanist and a ranger hiked out with a body bag — Julia Sayre, as far as anyone can tell at this point. These two said the others in the group were going to work on finding a second grave. Seems Parrish hinted there might be as many as eleven others up there—”
“Eleven!” Jack said.
“Yes. Pete didn’t have too many details, but I guess they had just come out of one meadow and were up on a ridge when Parrish started hinting about more bodies being up there. Thompson thought Parrish was playing games, until the cadaver dog reacted to a change in the wind.
“So the others went down to check out this second meadow, while the botanist and the ranger hiked out to the plane. The ranger radioed for a helicopter to pick him up so that he could show the chopper where to find the others — including Irene. But by the time the helicopter came to the landing strip for the ranger, the weather was bad. The chopper pilot said they’d have to go after the others later — they’d have problems just making it back to the ranger station.
“Storms are supposed to get worse during the next twenty-four hours. They won’t send a chopper in today — the pilot of the plane said if these two guys had come out an hour later, they wouldn’t have been able to take off at all.”
“Fucking wussies,” Dalton grumbled.
“I’ve told him the basics,” Jack said, “as you can tell, he’s already got some opinions on the matter.”
“Fuckin’-A,” Dalton said, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “How long ago did these two leave the rest of the group?”
“This morning. The rain and hiking with the body slowed them down. My partner’s going to try to talk to them, but it doesn’t look likely. He learned as much as he could from the pilot of the plane.”
When he didn’t go on, Travis said, “You looked upset when you walked in here. I take it there was more to it than that?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing, but — more than a fourth of the people who started out on this project are no longer with the group. And Pete said the pilot told him that these two were real unhappy about taking off. The botanist had promised to stay with the body, but he still protested about leaving the others. The ranger was even more adamant. When the pilot asked the ranger what the big deal was, since the group had enough food to be out for another couple of days, the ranger said that he thought the guards were fatigued.”
“Hmm,” Jack said, frowning. He turned to Travis. “Why don’t you take out those topo maps we marked up? It won’t hurt anybody if some extra campers show up in the area, right?”
“Free country,” Dalton said with a grin.
“Hell of a thing for a tax accountant to be saying,” Jack muttered.
Travis unfolded the maps and on one of them, pointed out a location on a western ridge. “That’s where the makeshift airstrip is.” He moved his finger along a line that connected a series of dots. “That’s the trail we think they were on when the lawyer was injured.”
Dalton nodded. “How many days ago you say that was?”
“Tuesday,” Frank answered. “Two days ago.”
“Hmm.” Dalton frowned over the map. “How many folks you say were on this star voyage?”
“Originally, or after the lawyer was taken home?”
“After.”
“Twelve people and a German shepherd. The ranger was gone for a day or so, then rejoined them after getting the lawyer out.”
“And the ranger and the botanist say the others were tired but doing okay as of this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And the ranger hasn’t been with them much, right? I mean, after this lawyer got stepped on, the ranger had to hike out and back in — had to find the others — and now he’s hiked out again. Spent most of his time on the hoof.”
“I think so — at least, that’s the way it sounds to me.”
“Tell me about the people in this group — you don’t need to bother with the ranger, I don’t think he figures into this part of the equation very much. Just tell me about the others.”
“Including Parrish?”
“Especially Parrish.”
Frank told him as much as he could, although he knew little of Ben Sheridan, David Niles, or Andy Stewart. From Dalton’s questions, he soon figured out what the other man was interested in: How would this group work t
ogether? Who would make decisions? How fit were they? How experienced as hikers?
The main problem before them — where had the group gone after they left Newly? — started to feel more like the kind of problem he worked with every day. Human behavior. So if you were this person, thinking the way he does and in this situation, what would you do next? Instead of the unfocused, nagging anxiousness of the past few hours, Frank knew he had something to work with, something he could set his mind to.
“You think Parrish was bringing these women to this place alive?” Dalton was asking.
“Yes,” Frank said. “He told us he flew Julia Sayre to the airstrip, made her hike for about a day, forced her dig her own grave, then tortured and killed her. Everything about it was planned. He had chosen her long before he made the kill. He isn’t disorganized or opportunistic. You listen to him talk, it’s all under control.” He frowned. “Except . . .”
“Except this victim you caught him on.”
“I wasn’t the one who caught him. Not my case, but—”
“Was it difficult, catching him on that one?”
“No,” Frank said, already seeing where this was going. “It wasn’t as difficult as it should have been.”
“Broke a pattern?”
“Stinger, with only one body and nothing more than Parrish’s own version of the Sayre case,” Jack said scornfully, “how the hell could the cops tell which of two cases set the pattern?”
But Frank was not so quick to answer, because he knew — he knew there had been other victims. He had said as much to his bosses when news of the deal with Parrish came down. Every other detective in the department had said as much. They had all known that the D.A. had made a wrong call.
“Mr. Dalton’s right,” Frank said. “Parrish broke a pattern.” He drew a steadying breath. “He wanted us to catch him.”
“Because—?” Dalton asked.
“Because he knows that he’ll escape.”
“He might want to,” Jack said, watching Frank begin to pace, “but he couldn’t know who would be going up into the mountains, or how heavily guarded he’d be.”
Frank didn’t answer. He was thinking of Parrish’s two known victims. Dark hair, blue eyes. Near Irene’s age.
“Never mind polishing that strip of floor, Frank,” Dalton said. “Get over here and take a look at these maps. Mother Nature has given us a little time to figure out where our man made himself a couple of cemeteries. According to what this ranger and botanist said, we’re looking for two meadows divided by a ridge. That could be several places, but not as many places as you’d think.”
“No,” Frank agreed. “Those two made it in less than a day, carrying a body and hiking in the rain.”
“Julia Sayre a big woman?”
“No. And the remains might be nothing more than a skeleton or a partial skeleton after this much time.”
“Right. So let’s see what this ground looks like and start making circles. Come up with some likely places, then as soon as the weather clears, we’ll take a pass over them. Save some time if we do a little thinking before we go.”
After the first hour of looking at the maps, Frank felt less optimistic. There were so many places the group could have reached within the time allotted, and the likelihood of finding the right one seemed small. But as Dalton continued to study them, he found reasons to eliminate one or another, narrowing the field. “I’m not saying cross them off the list altogether,” he said, standing up and stretching, “but they aren’t where I’d look first.”
When he walked away from the table, Frank said, “You aren’t stopping now, are you?”
Dalton opened his mouth to make a rude reply, then closed it. He studied Frank for a moment, then said, “Do you some good to take a break from it, too. I figure I’ll enjoy a little dog time. You all do what you want. I’m going to attend to my guests.”
He moved to the floor and began to wrestle with Deke and Dunk, who entered into the spirit of the game immediately, complete with loud and dramatic barks and growls.
Jack gave an apologetic look to Frank and Travis. “Stinger has to do things in his own way,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and yet still be heard over the ruckus. “No use trying to push him. But I’ll go with you if you want to leave . . .”
Frank’s need to reassure himself that Irene was safe tempted him to leave — tempted him until it was almost irresistible. Staying still was maddening. The urge to move, to act, to get as close to the mountains as possible nearly drove him to set aside all other considerations. But as he smoothed the uppermost topo map beneath his hands, spreading his fingers in an effort to release a fraction of the tension that invaded every muscle in his body, he saw circle after circle on the map, and realized that trying to find her without the help of the helicopter pilot would be all but impossible. There was simply too much ground to cover. And the storm would only make things worse.
“The weather is what’s holding us up, not your friend,” he said. “Stinger’s not the problem.”
“I like him,” Travis said. “Did he fly helicopters in Vietnam?”
“Never heard of the place,” Dalton said from the floor.
“He might be gray haired,” Jack said, “but the crazy-assed wild man’s ears are still sharp.”
So is his mind, Frank thought, studying the map as Dalton’s laughter mixed in with the barks and growls of the dogs. So is the crazy-assed wild man’s mind.
20
THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 18
A Cave in the Southern
Sierra Nevada Mountains
His lair, as he thought of it, was warm and dry. He wouldn’t have minded being out in the rain. He had many times suffered deprivations in pursuit of his goals; more than once, the mere observation of one of the objects of his affection had required a night spent in some inconvenient place during inclement weather. But at present, it was far more entertaining to be comfortable when she was not.
She would be alone in the dark, surrounded by death. She would have made the best of what was left of the camp, but there would be no food. This wouldn’t really harm her — water was readily available — but psychologically, her hunger would be to his advantage.
She wouldn’t know if he had made good his escape, or if he would return for her. He thought she probably knew of this cave. He had seen footprints and thought they were most likely hers — she had wandered off in this direction yesterday. But she would not know if he had stayed or fled.
At this stage of the game, hope would counteract some of her fears. She would think of the promised helicopter, coming to the meadow. While it was in some ways a nuisance, he was grateful that it tethered her to one location. She would not, in hysteria, go wandering off into the forest, simply trying to run from him or the scattered remains of her former protectors — he would have found her anyway, of course, but this made it so much easier.
He pictured her, huddled in her own tent — he knew that she would choose her own tent. The rain would drum loudly against it. She would be tired, but unable to sleep. Cold, hungry, afraid, alone.
Oh, she had the dog. But the dog would not be of much help to her. This dog was a spoiled and pampered dog, a dog whose master had been a silly man who sang songs and made up tricks for the dog. He had seen the attachment dog and master had to each other, the man’s constant displays of affection — really, it was almost obscene! The man had spoken to the dog nearly incessantly. Where was the dog’s dignity in that? And as for letting the beast slather his tongue all over his owner’s face — he was disgusted by the mere thought of it. He was glad to have put an end to it.
With his master dead, the dog would become depressed. Dogs did become depressed, he knew. Even Julia Sayre’s little dog had mourned her. He sighed, remembering how much he had enjoyed watching the little Pekingese staring from the second-story window, looking as if it would jump to its death, if it could only find a way to open the latch. He might have helped it, too, had he not been so enterta
ined by its sorrow.
This German shepherd — though not a purebred shepherd, surely — would be no better off. No, this dog — he couldn’t bring himself to say its ridiculous name! — would only make the night seem gloomier to a woman of her sympathetic nature.
He had so many plans for her. He was torn between considering these, and considering the successes of the day. He knew how to build his own anticipation, though, and so for the moment, the latter won out.
Things had indeed gone well today. Here he was, barely a scratch on him. He preferred to slowly savor murder, and was surprised that he could kill so efficiently and yet feel the sort of triumphant satisfaction that he had felt then. He had outsmarted them, of course, but it was so enjoyable to have such tangible proof of his abilities available to the world!
It was satisfying, but held none of the pleasures that previous killings had given him. It had all gone by a little too quickly. Especially Merrick and Manton — that really was a shame. Manton, standing closer to the explosion, had been stunned by it, but Merrick, although unable to comprehend what had happened at the grave, had reacted rather speedily to having his weapon taken. That was nearly admirable. He had been forced to kill him immediately.
Ah well, life would always have its minor disappointments. He would counter this with the knowledge that their bullet-riddled faces would shock and anger their comrades. And with the knowledge that Irene had been there to see it all, including his display of marksmanship in the killing of that pompous ass, Sheridan.
Sheridan, who had stared at his coyotes, who had presumed to know something about him. Sheridan, who had touched Julia!
He remembered that the man had actually had the nerve to go to Irene’s tent late one night. He had heard their voices, but could not make out their conversation. He only knew that she had refused Sheridan, for he had walked away. She must have told him that she would rather sleep with the dog, because it was the dog who kept her company that night. Just as somewhere, out in those rainy woods, the dog was with her tonight.
It was at this point that he decided he had put off his treat long enough. He carefully withdrew them from his breast pocket. They weren’t the lacy, frilly type. Nothing like that for her. Even before he had seen them, he knew that she would wear simple cotton briefs. He found them charmingly innocent, almost like a little girl’s panties. Slowly, reverently, he brought them to his face.
