by Gregg Olsen
Olga wanted to say more, but the phone connection failed. Cheap piece of garbage, she thought. Hope she got all of that.
Chapter Thirty-five
Monday, 8:35 P.M., on the Pacific coast of Washington
It had started raining early in the day and hadn’t let up. Couldn’t let up. The sky was a pewter lid smacked down over the ocean and the coast. Dunes with cockscombs of sea grasses held off the foamy surf. Rain pelted the windshield with relentless force as Emily followed the two-lane seaside road to the address on the card. She turned on her wipers to maximum speed, but she could barely see. The defroster was blowing at full bore, but it couldn’t keep up with the damp air that circulated through the soggy Accord. Emily opened the driver’s-side window to suck out the warm, moist air, but it just sent needles of rain against her left cheek. With her eyes fixed on the road, she leaned over and pulled some tissues from the glove box and started to wipe. Better. A sign flashed by the window: WELCOME TO WASHINGTON’S COAST. She looked in the rearview mirror and squinted at the bright headlights that had trailed her since she left Seattle.
I’ll need to tell Christopher to get those lights adjusted.
Whenever Emily thought of Kristi Cooper, she thought of Reynard Tuttle. That was long before she had any inkling that Dylan Walker could have been involved. So sure was she of Tuttle’s guilt that she completely dismissed the Tuttle’s family’s feeble protestations that he was innocent. Reynard Tuttle’s sister and ex-wife were united in their insistence that Tuttle, who was diagnosed as schizophrenic when he was twenty-two, was innocent of the Cooper kidnapping. “He’s not capable of hurting an innocent little girl,” Delilah Tuttle Lewis, his sister, told a TV reporter not long after the shooting. “He was crazy, but a gentle crazy.”
Tuttle’s background had suggested as much. He’d been arrested only once for loitering in front of the King County courthouse. With the ACLU by his side, the charges were dismissed. His lawyers said that since he usually was seen holding a placard espousing hatred for the police whom he accused of conspiring against him, he’d been unfairly and unjustly singled out for prosecution. The day they picked him up was the only day anyone could recall in which Tuttle had been without his little sign. Tuttle had never been violent in his life. He’d never hurt a soul. Crazy, his family said, didn’t make him a kidnapper and a killer.
There was no wrongful-death suit from the Tuttles, however. The reason for that was cruel and simple. Tuttle, as a mentally ill man, had no worth. The loss of his life could not be equated to future earnings of any kind. It was as if he didn’t exist.
After she’d killed him, Emily Kenyon never allowed herself to think for one second that he’d been anything but a killer.
Crazy or not, he did it. Because if he didn’t, then that meant his blood was indelibly on her own hands.
But that was before. Now she had doubts that gnawed at her soul.
Emily turned off the highway toward the Pacific, and the tourist community of Copper Beach. The sun had dipped into the ocean, but even at high noon, it would still have the dark gloom that makes the water and sky a seamless wall. Copper Beach had been platted in the 1980s as Washington’s great answer to the coastal communities that brought retirees with fat pensions. Two golf courses were built. Tribal land nearby also factored into the plans. In Washington, gambling was illegal. But Native American tribes who owned vast stretches of the state operated as sovereign nations. Tribal casinos would soon spring up. It was the yin and yang developers had long dreamed about: Wonder bread communities on the coast with the naughty fun of the bad-influence-neighbor just down the road.
One problem. The weather. Washington wasn’t California, or even Oregon. Rain kept the place from really taking off. As Emily drove though the town, motels and saltwater taffy shops competed with moped rentals and sad old horses that had never seen better days—Sea Nags—hired out for beach rides. Alongside the road beach houses were draped in necklaces of fishing floats and flanked by chainsaw effigies of New England fisherman wearing yellow slickers and spinning ship’s wheels. Sand dunes threatened the roadway. Despite the ocean’s waves crashing against driftwood, the world outside her car seemed so silent. So lonely. Emily Kenyon thanked God that Christopher Collier was right behind her. Following her. How familiar it all felt.
She remembered the heavy tangle of driftwood that lined the beachhead and protected the road, wooden limbs clawing into the damp marine air. The stream of light from her perpetually-on high-beam headlights brought the snags and roots to life.
A last turn, and Emily was almost there. Adrenaline, the drug of working cops, skydivers, and mothers in search of their endangered children, pulsed. It nearly flooded her system when she saw it. A black mailbox carried the number on its silvery weathered driftwood post: 4444 COPPER BEACH ROAD. She pulled over and kept the car idling until Christopher opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat.
“You drive like a maniac,” he said. “I could barely keep up with you.”
Emily faked a smile. “That’s because you drive like someone’s grandpa.”
Christopher shrugged and allowed her the upper hand. He cracked the window. The car was warm inside. “You ready to do this?” he asked.
“What about backup? Did you call the local blues?”
“Nope. We don’t need them. We’re just doing a little surveillance.”
“What if we’re wrong and she—they—aren’t here? What if Walker’s playing some kind of mind game?”
“There’s no what if on that one. He is. He’s got to be.”
Emily opened the door; the soft ping of the warning sound faded into the stormy air. “Let’s go.”
The cabin had been remodeled in the years since they’d both been there. People with money had taken the place with the idea they’d be able to turn it into a bed and breakfast. They’d had intermittent success. During his drive from Tacoma, Christopher had contacted the owners, now living in Seattle and the place was vacant. It was not owned by Walker’s cousin after all.
“Worst investment we ever made,” the gruff-voiced man said. “The place is cursed. Can’t keep it booked more than half the season. Go ahead. Have a look around. If you like it, I’ll make you a deal on a rental.”
That would never happen, of course. The Seattle detective could think of nothing more unlikely than vacationing at the scene of the Tuttle shooting.
“Key’s under the gull by the front door,” the man had said.
Chapter Thirty-six
Monday, 11:30 P.M., Copper Beach, Washington
When Emily and Christopher got within ten yards of the cabin’s front door, a porch light—a floodlight, no less—went off like a paparazzo’s camera. Flash! They blinked back the sudden, silent explosion of brightness. Who was that? Their eyes had barely adjusted to the flash when a figure, the silhouette of a man, appeared in the doorway, then disappeared.
“Come on in,” a voice called out from somewhere in the pool of light. “I’ve been expecting you.”
It was a familiar voice: the voice of a thousand cheap documentaries with prison interviews over which he presided whenever a pretty producer would call. It was Dylan Walker.
“Put your hands where we can see them, Walker.” Christopher used his don’t-mess-with-me voice. It was a far cry from the tough voice he’d use on a garden-variety suspect.
For a cop, Dylan Walker was the unholy grail.
“Why should I?”
Walker lingered for a beat before turning his back and sauntering farther into the cabin, out of view. It was as if he hadn’t a care in the world and loved the attention of two guns pointed at him. “You arrest me,” he called out. “You shoot me in the back. Either way, you’ll never see your daughter again.”
Both guns pitched in front of them, the two went up the steps. Emily knew that if Jenna wasn’t there—and she knew that possibility was next to nil—then only one person would know where Jenna was. The man who would be king of the serial killers
was the only one who could save her daughter.
Dylan Walker was a man without compassion.
Emily, just behind Chris, whispered, “We’re going in.”
The wind howled behind them. Chris gave a slight nod, as if to say everything would be fine.
“Stay close,” he said.
She wouldn’t have it any other way. He always could read my mind, she thought.
The pair stepped out of the windy night and through the open door. Sand moved under their feet like fine grit sandpaper. A carving of a seagull on a piling crouched in the space next to the doorway. Dead houseplants lined the entryway, a kind of graveyard of neglect that indicated no one lived in the cabin full-time. Neither could see Dylan Walker just then. Flames crackled through the driftwood logs in the river rock fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling like a stone temple, hollowed by fire. It was a cozy scene.
Cozy for a serial killer.
Walker appeared, coming out of what Emily was certain was the rental’s tiny kitchen. She’d been there. She knew. Dylan Walker held a beer and a gun.
“Thirsty?” he asked. “I have some Doritos, too.”
Christopher almost shook his head at the remark. “Maybe you’re blind and you don’t see the guns here? Drop yours now.”
Dylan shrugged at Christopher, but addressed Emily. “Maybe you don’t know how to have a good time? Do you, Emily? I mean, you haven’t had a good time since Reynard Tuttle went down. Since Kristi Cooper.” He set the beer on a lamp table and grinned. “Didn’t you shoot Tuttle right here?”
Emily stayed mute. She wanted to speak, but she was fighting the memories he was callously flinging at her. Walker pointed to a spot on the worn pine floorboards. “Still stained.”
Emily glanced at Chris who kept his weapon punched toward Dylan. Then, almost reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward. The wood floor was scuffed and scratched, but its color was golden, a perfect Swedish finish. There were no stains. No blood. By the time she looked over at Walker, she knew he’d gotten what he’d wanted. His self-satisfied grin told her everything.
“Made you look,” he said.
“You’re a real piece of work, Walker,” said Christopher.
“Oh, you really scare me.”
“I mean to.” Christopher’s mouth was a straight line of anger.
Dylan laughed and patted his firearm. He backed into a chair, stretching out his sinewy legs to meet a tattered, upholstered ottoman.
Emily tried to gather her wits. She willed her heart to slow its rapid pace. Where is all of this going? The scene was surreal with the three of them, guns drawn at each other in a bizarre stalemate. She and Chris both knew that if Jenna and Nick weren’t in the cabin with Walker, they could be anywhere. The man with the perfect body and piercing, cold eyes was the only one who knew just where that could be.
“Where’s my daughter? Where’s Nick Martin?”
“Not here, if that’s what you’re asking. Look around.”
With Chris covering her, Emily moved swiftly from the main room, to the kitchen, to the single bedroom. A window was open and she could hear the roar of the Pacific, but no sign of her daughter. Why is this happening? Why is God doing this to me? Emily fought to push all of the things that spoke to her being a mother to the back of her consciousness. Let the cop take over, she thought. Let the cop find the girl.
“Last chance. Where is she?” Emily’s gun, once more directed at Dylan Walker, wavered just a little. She moved her finger on the trigger.
Chris looked at her with abject horror. Not again, Emily. “Let’s keep cool here, Walker,” Chris said, though his words were really meant for Emily.
Walker knew it.
“Tell that to Ms. Rambo.”
Emily didn’t say anything. She let Christopher take over. She knew she’d lost her perspective just then. She was a mother more than she was a cop.
“Let’s all stand down, all right?” Christopher asked, his voice cool and commanding. “No one needs to get hurt here.”
“Good idea. If I get hurt, Jenna dies. So I’m game. And if you don’t think I can keep a secret, you don’t know me at all. But I’m willing to talk. Maybe. Just point your guns to the floor.” Dylan lowered his gun slightly, his eyes fastened on his adversaries, who both ignored his request.
Emily had wanted to kill Dylan Walker for all that he’d done. But trumping all of that, of course, was Jenna’s whereabouts. Her safety. Sucking up to a monster could save her. It was the only thing she could do. But there was another presence in the room . . . Kristi Cooper. Emily knew that Kristi was the reason for this horrific reunion.
“Where is she? Where is Jenna?”
“At first, I thought the Tuttle shooting was a godsend,” Walker said, ignoring her question. “You’d killed an innocent man. I’d gotten away with something. Your murder of Tuttle made mine a perfect crime—”
“The shooting was an accident.”
“Incompetence, I’d say. But you call it whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Poor Kristi. And now, poor Jenna. I won’t ask you again, lower your weapons.”
Christopher moved toward Dylan, just a step or two. Just enough to let him know that he was unafraid.
“Where is your son?”
The words brought a smile, but Walker said nothing.
Christopher pushed harder. “Are he and Jenna together? If you’re here . . . and they are off somewhere, doesn’t that leave you without the prize?”
A blank look came over Walker’s face. “The prize?”
“Your son. All of this is about him. The smuggling of your semen? The babies by Tina and Bonnie. All about your legacy, right.”
Walker let out a long insidious laugh. It was the kind of laugh that chills a body to the marrow, Freon in the bloodstream. An evil laugh that had nothing to do with anything being amusing. “For all of your reading about serial killers, all the stupid classes you’ve taken for your somewhat checkered career, you don’t understand me one bit.”
“I do.” It was Emily this time. “I get you. You’re all about control and power. That’s why you pick on young girls, trusting women. You like to be in charge, don’t you?”
“Ooooh,” he said, “I like it when you act smart.”
“Don’t patronize me, Dylan. I know you. I can see through you. You’re nothing but a guy who thinks the world revolves around him. You’re a narcissist.”
Walker laughed again, this time it was brief like a release of gratification.
“As if that label would sting a little,” he said, sitting back. “I’m a narcissist because I look good. People like me. Women like me.”
“Not this one,” she said. “Now, let’s give this up. You can be reunited with your son. I can find my daughter. You can go quietly and safely.”
Walker looked confused. It was the first time he’d seemed out of sorts, as though what Emily said finally touched a nerve. Finally she was able to penetrate the facade, the mask.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he asked. “You don’t understand me like Bonnie did—”
“Before you killed her?” Christopher cut in. The fire crackled and sent embers across the pine floorboards.
Dylan Walker was agitated. The coolness of his demeanor was draining before their eyes. “Like Bonnie did. She was smart. Fat, but smart. Weak, needy, and smart. My favorite combination. She knew I was a mimic. She knew I didn’t care one bit about her or anyone. Nick included. I didn’t care whether any of them took their last breaths. That made her want me even more.” The heinous grin returned, but this time it seemed fake. Practiced. Bravado.
“Where is Jenna Kenyon?” Christopher asked.
Just then, without warning, a shot pierced the small space of the cabin. Almost on instinct, Emily checked her own gun. Had it gone off? Had she pressed the trigger when she hadn’t meant to? She wondered if that’s what happened years ago with Reynard Tuttle. Had that been a
serious misstep or an accident? All of that passed through her mind as the realization came that it was not her gun that had fired and that Dylan Walker had not been shot.
Dylan was standing, having jumped to his feet, his gun in his hand. Smoke curled from its shiny black barrel. Emily heard the sound of a body falling, a heavy thud. She turned.
Christopher Collier was on the floor, blood oozing from his chest. His life draining from his body, one red drop at a time. He was so pale; he looked like one of those Elizabethan courtesans, all white with a gash of red for his mouth. The blood was flowing. In the split second of the shot to the realization that Dylan Walker had shot Christopher, Emily Kenyon let her guard down. She could have fired back at Dylan, but she didn’t. She’d been trained to do so. Officer down! Fire back! Stop the shooter! Everything she knew from the police academy failed her. The knowledge was there. The skill, too. But when she learned how to deal with a cop shooter, she hadn’t been a mother.
She hadn’t needed to know where a serial killer had stashed her daughter. The only link in the chain of evidence to save Jenna was the evil force with the gun pointed at her.
“What did you do?” She dropped to her knees and held Christopher.
His breathing was labored. His handsome face, pallid. “I’m going to be all right,” he said. Christopher’s voice was soft, but he tried to show confidence.
“Of course you are,” Emily answered, not sure who was lying just then. Her? Him? Both of them. She blinked back her tears. “We need to get medical attention here.”
“Not so fast.” Dylan Walker now stood by the doorway. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He hesitated. “Someone?”
Jenna.
Emily pointed her gun. Walker smiled at her and in doing so, it rushed through her mind that he’d never been handsome in his life. Evil like that never could be. His features were symmetrical, classic, and well proportioned. He’d been likened to a “Greek god” by magazine writers who fantasized for their readers what being with the ultimate bad boy, the King of the Serial Killers, might be like. The sexy mix of danger and good looks. So damned stupid. But just then, he looked hideous, a twisted kind of handsome.
