Find Me

by Carol O’Connell

  “Dr. Magritte,” said the boy with uncertainty.

  “Yes, Paul Magritte.”

  “Oh, Dr. Paul.” The boy pointed toward the other side of the encampment. “You can see him from here. He’s the old man, the only one with white hair.” Cupping both hands around his mouth, the boy told him that Dr. Pa ul’s last name was pronounced Mahgrit. He whispered this with great good manners so that the visitor would not be embarrassed in front of nearby campers.

  Ah, then Magritte was not a Frenchman, but a fellow countryman, whose citizenship dated back so many generations that his forbearers had ceased to resist the American mangling of the family name. Charles turned to the far campfire and saw one head of curly white hair in a group of other people standing and seated, all facing the old man with rapt attention.

  So this was their shepherd.

  The helicopter was hovering up ahead, preparing to land. Mallory had matched time with it all along the road, even outstripping its air speed to make up for the extra distance while the chopper flew in a beeline. Her car pulled over to the side of the road near a yellow van with an electric-company logo. The curtains strung up on poles advertised a crime scene disguised as a repair underway by a crew of utility workers. The use of the FBI helicopter was over the top in blowing the local cover story, and now she knew this was one body that Dale Berman needed to see-or steal- in a hurry.

  The detective stepped out of her car and was immediately met by a man in his early twenties and a woman twice that age. Though neither of them wore FBI field jackets, they could only be feds. Mallory held up her gold shield for the senior agent. Back in New York, this badge was her crime-scene passport, and she was accustomed to people moving aside for her. But these two had obvious plans to annoy her. They were still blocking her way.

  Standoff.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get a good look at your ID,” said the younger agent.

  It was the older one, the woman, who took the badge when it was shown a second time. After shining a flashlight on the wallet, she returned it, saying, “You’re a long way from New York, Detective.”

  Mallory put all the weight of a gun in her voice. “And you thought I might be lost, maybe stopping to ask for directions?” Could she communicate any more clearly that she took these two for minions? “I’m here to see your boss, Dale Berman.”

  “Special Agent Berman isn’t in this sector, Detective. And now I’ll have to ask you to wait in your car.”

  Pointing at the helicopter settling to the ground, Mallory said, “That’s Berman. His business is urgent, and he’ll be leaving soon.” Gesturing toward the lighted curtains and the fake utility crew, she said, “Right after he takes a look at the kid’s grave. Now, is there anything else I can tell you about what’s going on at your own crime scene? No? Then back off.”

  Neither of them made a move to stop her as she circled round them and crossed the open ground to the helicopter. Feds had standing orders never to lay one hand on a cop. And there was good reason for that: The police were not hampered by any such protocol. So, failing in a block, the tackle was not an option, and the two agents could only follow her-closely.

  It was Riker’s turn to meet the Finn children, Dodie and Peter. He agreed with the sheriff ’s t heory, one arrived at after the Missouri lawman had placed a phone call to Kronewald in Chicago: It was no coincidence that a damaged youngster was traveling with this group.

  Her bodyguard, a boy of ten, lurched forward as Riker reached out to gently touch the little girl’s d ark brown hair. The detective smiled at the older child, saying, “It’s okay, Peter. I would never hurt your sister.” He tapped the badge clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket, but this only added to the boy’s alarm.

  Curious.

  Now the father was awake-and angry. A police badge should be a magnet for everybody in this group, a source of news, good or bad, and one more cop to look at their posters. But Joe Finn clearly wanted him dead.

  “Get away from my kids.” The big man was rising from the ground, muscles tensing, two fists ready. “You freaks have done enough damage.”

  The man had gone from deep sleep to full alert in an instant. He had seen the flash of a badge but not clearly. Did they share a common enemy? The word “freaks” was a good clue.

  Riker’s c hoices were few. He could not ask the sheriff for backup, not without losing face. So he could have his jaw broken by a younger man in better shape-and then there was reverse diplomacy. “I’m a cop, not FBI. If that’s what you thought-well, I’m insulted.”

  This seemed to mollify Joe Finn. Fists relaxing, he rammed his hands into his pockets, thus putting away his only weapons.

  And the only apology was extended to the little boy. “Sorry, kid,” said Riker. “I won’t bother your sister again.” The detective moved away from the campfire in company with the sheriff, a man much like himself; Sheriff Banner would also connect every odd thing with another. They watched the little family from a distance.

  “So-you think I’m right?”

  “Yeah,” said Riker. “Too bad. If that little girl saw something, she’s useless as a witness.” But she would make good bait for a child killer, and he looked around for evidence of this idea. Somewhere in this group, he should find at least two moles; FBI agents on this kind of undercover assignment would work in pairs, though many of these parents were solo. He turned to the sheriff for his best guess. “You’ve talked to most of the campers?”

  “Oh, yeah, all of ’em, and I’ve looked at their posters. One’s a solid match for the little girl in our cemetery.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and clicked on his flashlight for the detective’s benefit. “See this line about the horseshoe key chain? It’s got engraving on the back. We found that in the dirt where the girl was buried. The FBI had to know whose child she was, but they never told the parents. Ain’t t hat cold?” His eyes were fixed on a couple who sat on campstools, drinking coffee in that companionable silence of husband and wife. “And now I have to tell them their kid is dead. Sometimes I hate my job.”

  “Tell them in the morning,” said Riker. “I’ll be here if you want backup.” In truth, he would rather face a loaded gun than the parents of a murdered child. And now he had to wonder what had gone through Mallory’s mind when she visited the sheriff ‘s o ffice-when she saw the picture of the gravestone with her own name chiseled into the marble. What had that done to her? How close to the edge was she?

  Catching up to her in the night might be a bad idea.

  Yeah, daylight was best.

  He wanted her to see him coming, slow and easy, smiling just like old times. Then she might be less inclined to shoot him, and this was not entirely a little joke he told himself.

  The detective was distracted by the arrival of a newcomer in a pickup truck. A bearded man leaned out the driver’s w indow to open his wallet for a deputy, and then he parked among the other civilian vehicles. When the tall, skinny driver emerged, he was leading a large black dog on a leash made of heavy chain, and the other dogs were spooked. None of them barked to challenge this animal.

  The dog was better fed than his master, a tall, thin man with long matted hair, one gold tooth and one tooth missing. His cracked-leather boots were rundown at the heels; his eyes were the color of dust, and he carried the ripe smell of clothing that had not been laundered in days and days.

  However, Charles Butler’s first impression of him was not one of poverty, but of disregard for appearances and a loss of appetite for food and creature comforts. Among the parents of the caravan, there were others in this same sorry state. This man only breathed because he must; his body made him do it. But all the acts that were voluntary-these went by the board.

  The tall stranger stood before Paul Magritte’s campfire, extending his hand and introducing himself as “Jill’s d ad-from Austin, Texas.”

  Dr. Magritte smiled warmly as he stood up and shook hands, apparently recognizing this man by the mention of his child. “Of course, how a
re you?” He turned to Charles. “Jill’s D ad-that’s Mr. Hastings’ Internet name.”

  Charles’s attention shifted to the Texan’s c anine companion; its fur was thick and black. Possibly a cousin to a malamute? No, that was wrong. He had attended many New York dog shows and possessed eidetic memory, but he could not recall a breed quite this strange. However, though he had never had a pet of his own, he always got on well with domestic animals, and now he reached out to stroke the beast’s head.

  His hand froze in midair.

  He was suddenly the sole focus of the dog’s attention; it fixed him with pale blue alien eyes, detached from all emotion-chilling. And Charles’s last thought was that this was not a dog.

  “It’s a wolf, right?” Riker materialized at the campfire and quickly pulled Charles’s hand back before it could be bitten off.

  Thank you, thank you.

  “Mostly wolf,” said Jill’s D ad, “maybe one quarter mutt.”

  The sheriff stepped into the firelight, one hand resting on his holstered sidearm. “Lock him up in your truck. If I see that animal out tonight, I’ll shoot him dead.”

  Jill’s D ad nodded. Man and wolf walked away.

  Riker watched the departing animal for a moment. Then he slapped Charles on the back. “It’s got weird eyes, huh? Real cold. Remind you of anybody we know?”

  Dr. Magritte was first to respond to this, albeit silently with a look of surprise.

  And now the detective turned to the old man and gave him a slow grin. “So you had a little talk with Mallory. Was that fun?”

  Detective Mallory squared off against Special Agent Berman, and there was no other way for him to read her showdown pose. All that remained was the question of whether she intended to draw on him or deck him. As he recalled, she liked her old grudges; she kept them for years.

  Agent Cadwaller had been dismissed, but kept looking back over his shoulder as he walked away. Dale Berman waved one hand to move this man along a little faster. The escorts remained, sensing hostility. Hostile was Mallory’s o t her name. And now he faced the young cop from New York City, admitting to her that she had guessed right about his moles, the two agents embedded in the caravan. “But that’s all the manpower I can spare.”

  “Two agents on Dodie Finn? That doesn’t w o rk for me,” said Mallory. “You need more guns riding point and rear.”

  He could try denial. No-bad idea. This cop was not fishing or bluffing. She knew things about the humming child. “Okay, Mallory. I’m spread thin, but I could send maybe two more warm bodies for the protection detail.”

  “You’re not protecting anybody,” she said. “You’re stringing a little girl out as bait. Either you send a real security detail or I organize state troopers for the next two thousand miles. Then I call out the media.”

  He shook his head. “I know you won’t do that. It’s just what this freak wants.”

  “You think I care? It’s more pairs of eyes on those people. Less chance of another one getting killed. Other parents are joining up with that caravan all the time. That should make it easier to work in new agents. I’ll tell the old man to back up their cover stories.”

  “All right. Done,” said Dale Berman. “I’ll have agents riding point and rear.” He held up both hands in surrender. “See? I’m perfectly happy to be extorted. Anything else you want? My wallet?” He turned his eyes to his audience, Agents Allen and Nahlman.

  Mallory took a step closer, saying, “One more thing.”

  He never saw it coming. One moment he was smiling, and then he was bent over with the explosion of pain from his crotch. Mallory had smashed his testicles with a lightning kick. Agent Berman never saw the second shot, either. Her kneecap connected to his jaw and sent him sprawling backward. He was on the ground and tasting blood on the tooth that had split his lip.

  Agent Barry Allen was only reacting with wide eyes, but this youngster was new to the job. Agent Nahlman had no such excuse; she was a veteran with eighteen years of experience. And yet there was ample time for Dale Berman to prop himself on one crooked arm and look up at Mallory, yelling, “Are you nuts! ” Now-finally -his agents were stepping forward- a bit late in his view-when he held up one hand to stop them. Teeth clenched, he said to them, “Just walk away.”

  They did as they were told.

  When his people were out of earshot, he was still on the ground at Mallory’s feet. Standing up to her was important enough to work through a world of pain, and he did. Gaining his feet, he dusted off his suit jacket. “I guess your old man had good reason to take a shot at me, but what did I ever do to you?”

  Mallory gave him half a smile and a look of utter satisfaction that only payback can bring. She turned away from him and walked toward the road with a casual stride, as if decking a federal agent might be an everyday thing with her.

  Riker lay beside his duffel bag on the lumpy motel mattress. He was too tired to hunt for his toothbrush.

  Charles Butler sat tailor fashion on the other bed. He was examining the contents of Savannah Sirus’s purse and a suitcase recently pulled from the trunk of the car. Riker’s o w n Polaroids of the dead woman were lined up in a neat row. This was all the physical evidence for the psychological autopsy of a suicide victim. And while the psychologist sorted these items, he spoke to the detective from some other compartment of his giant brain where he dealt with the more current problem. “Kronewald’s very tight with his information. You’re sure that Mallory knows the name of the FBI agent in charge?”

  “Maybe not,” said Riker, “but he’s not the reason she’s on this road. Dale Berman is one coincidence I can buy. He was always ambitious. No sur- prise he’d worm his way into a major case.” Riker pinned his hopes on coincidence, for Mallory was not in any shape to settle old scores with that fed. Her foster father was dead and in the ground, beyond all pain and regret, so what would be the point of going after Dale? He had no desire to talk about this anymore-any reminder of that FBI agent depressed him. “So what can you tell me about the little girl from the caravan?”

  “Dodie? She belongs in a hospital.” After gathering up all of Savannah Sirus’s clothing, Charles returned it to the suitcase. Then he laid out the remaining items on different squares of the bedspread pattern, patiently working on a suicide while discussing serial murder with his friend. “Dodie’s missing sister won’t fit the victim profile. Ariel Finn was a teenager.” He looked up at the detective on the next bed. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Of course. Sorry. The sheriff told you, right? Ye t you’re still interested in that little family.”

  Charles began to move the items around, departing from his patchwork grid to create orderly piles. Savannah’s lipstick was paired with a checkbook, and a folded envelope shared a patchwork square with a black-and-white snapshot. “So you’re wondering if Dodie Finn might’ve been the real target. Maybe her sister Ariel got in the way.” And, in answer to a question that Riker had just thought of, Charles said, “If Dodie saw her sister’s murder, that would be consistent with her present condition. But I can’t t e ll you that’s what happened. I can’t w o rk magic.”

  “Right.” The detective continued to watch his friend’s methodical sorting process. Savannah Sirus’s postmortem photos, all but one, were cast aside. The groupings of her personal effects made no sense to him. A driver’s license now kept company with the round-trip plane ticket.

  “This woman wasn’t s u icidal before she met Mallory.” Charles picked up the plastic card. “Just look at her in this license photograph.”

  Rolling on his side, Riker squinted at this picture the size of a postage stamp.

  “This driver’s license is more interesting,” said Charles, “if you know it was renewed ten days before Miss Sirus arrived in New York. In this picture, her hair is styled. You see? She’s well groomed-eye makeup, rouge and lipstick.”

  “The works.” Riker nodded, pretending that he could actually make out these details on the tiny photograph. There was no need to see
it clearly. Charles had just described the war paint worn by a middle-aged woman who had a life worth living-until she stepped off a plane in New York City. It was easier to read the larger, more recent photograph in Charles’s other hand. This was the close-up of a dead woman with lank, dirty hair, and no makeup at all. “Mallory did all that damage in just three weeks?”

  “Tell me you don’t b e lieve that Mallory deliberately drove this woman to kill herself.”

  “Naw, o f course not,” said Riker. First he would have to know what Savannah had done to deserve it.

  Charles held up a checkbook. “Miss Sirus was planning another sort of trip when she was interrupted.”

  “I saw that,” said Riker. “The check entry for a cruise line.”

  “This woman wanted to see the world. Thirty thousand dollars would buy stops in a great many ports. The check is recent, and this sort of trip would be booked and paid for months in advance. A woman with suicidal ideation wouldn’t be able to plan that far ahead. She wouldn’t see any future at all. And, apparently, Miss Sirus-I should say Dr. Sirus-had no money worries.” Charles held up a business card. “She was a dermatologist. Judging by her other checkbook entries, she was very successful. Mallory’s mother was a doctor, too.”

  “But not so successful,” said Riker. Mallory’s natural mother had been a general practitioner in a tiny town. “Cassandra was probably paid in dead chickens and sacks of potatoes.”

  “But there’s more,” said Charles. “Savannah’s from Chicago. Did you know that Mallory’s mother interned at a Chicago hospital?”

  Ya wning, Riker said, “No, I didn’t. The brat never tells me anything.”

  “But you knew Cassandra was originally from Louisiana.” Charles held up the driver’s license to bring his point home. “And Savannah is a southern name.”