by David Wood
“He is kind of tightly wound, isn’t he?” Maddock agreed.
“The three of us have been through some stuff together.” Bones made a circular motion with his beer bottle, a gesture that took in Maddock, Grizzly, and himself. “Maybe he feels like an outsider.”
“Spenser just met us, and she didn’t act all awkward,” Maddock said.
“That’s because I’ve seen your butt,” she deadpanned.
Bones laughed and raised his bottle. “You are fitting right in.” He flitted his eyes in Maddock’s direction. It was scarcely a glance, but the pair were like brothers, and Maddock recognized it as a look of challenge.
Riv chose that moment to return, providing a welcome distraction. She moved stiffly, her jaw set, eyes hard. In her left hand she held a manila envelope pinched between her thumb and forefinger as if she despised its touch. They fell silent as she locked the door behind her and joined them in the living area.
“Read that. I’m going to make a pitcher of margaritas. And I’m not sharing.”
“That bad?” Like a man petting a stranger’s dog, Grizzly reached out with a nervous hand, picked up the envelope, and slid the contents out. Inside was a stack of papers. Grizzly riffled through it, but Maddock could tell that the top few sheets were a printout of an email chain. The others appeared to be scans of documents, articles, and photographs.
Grizzly began to read. After a few seconds he let out a gasp. “Is this legit?” he called to Riv.
“The documentation is all there,” she said over the clack of ice being poured into a blender.
“Would somebody like to clue us in?” Bones asked.
Grizzly glanced back down at the papers and gave his head a shake.
“According to this, our friend Bryce Shipman is the son of Kirk Striker.”
––––––––
The walls of the slot canyon seemed to close in around her. Franzen closed her eyes, took a few breaths, and exhaled. As she forced the air out of her lungs, she squeezed her body forward.
Almost. If I could just...
She pushed harder. And then nothing. She’d pushed it too far and now she was stuck.
Panic welled up inside her. Her heart raced, her breath came in gasps. But each intake of breath was agony, forcing her rib cage to push against the cold stone that confined her.
She tried to throw her weight back. She didn’t budge. Again. Nothing.
“Got to get out.” Her words were little more than mere breath. She started to twist and thrash about until a mournful, ghostly wail froze her in her tracks. It took a moment to realize the sound came from her own lips. A sudden wave of anger burned away the fear.
What is wrong with me? This is not my first rodeo. Why am I losing it?
But she knew the answer. Maddock and Bonebrake had turned her life upside down with that necklace. Megan’s necklace. She knew to whom it belonged even if no one else in the department believed her. And ever since then, she’d been behaving recklessly. And now, here she was, wedged in a slot canyon, no partner, no way of calling for help. It was a fine predicament but freaking out was not the solution. Up ahead, something crept out into a sliver of moonlight. It inched toward her on eight hairy legs.
A tarantula!
The venomous, desert-dwelling arachnids were nocturnal hunters, creeping out of their burrows at night in search of insects, other spiders, and even small lizards. They relied on their extreme sensitivity to vibrations to help them track their prey, and right now, this spider with a leg span the size of a dinner plate, was locked in on her. It cast a long, sinister shadow in the moonlight.
Franzen gathered her wits about her and focused. She imagined her body soft, like a sponge, pictured a force inside of her, like a black hole, drawing all her mass inward. Little by little, she let the vision envelop her. She could almost feel her body getting smaller. Her panic subsided. Now she created the mental image of an inexorable force pushing her backward. Bit by bit she allowed herself to move back until, with a painful grunt, she tore free of the narrow space. She left a bit of skin behind, too.
“Mom’s always saying I need to exfoliate,” she mumbled, gingerly touching her scraped cheek. “Well, I guess that’s a dead end.”
The tarantula was still creeping in her direction and she spared a moment to kneel and give the creature a closer inspection. She’d never understood the aversion some people had to these fascinating creatures. She found them beautiful in their own way. “You wouldn’t happen to know where that stupid cave entrance is, would you?”
The spider didn’t reply.
She took out her flashlight and a topographical map and tried to determine her location. What if Maddock had misled her about the location of the entrance to the caverns? She’d run background checks on him and Bonebrake. She’d learned precious little, save that both were decorated veterans and treasure hunters. Bonebrake also dabbled in cryptozoology and conspiracy theories. If the men were searching for treasure, they could very well have sent her off in the wrong direction.
“There’s probably no man in black, either.”
Something caught her eye. A shadow, a shade darker than the night sky, crossed the corner of her vision. She reached for her revolver, but she was too slow.
Something struck her on the forehead. She saw stars and stumbled backward, tripping on a rock and falling hard to the ground. The air left her lungs in a rush, and she found herself pinned between two boulders, her weapon stuck beneath her body and the ground. She struggled to catch her breath. Pain seared her skull and her eyes watered, turning the night sky into a kaleidoscope of stars. She felt blood running down her face. She heard the crunch of booted feet on the hard earth, coming closer. Franzen thrashed and jerked, trying to free herself, reach her sidearm. The footsteps came closer. Her lungs now burned for oxygen. Panic rose anew. She had to get out of here. She kicked and thrashed. Invisible bands constricted her chest.
Finally, she managed to suck in a ragged breath. With a monumental effort, she levered herself up. She could almost reach her weapon.
And then a shadow blotted out the moonlight.
She had only a moment to raise her hands in a half-hearted defense before something heavy struck her on the head and the world went black.
Chapter 21
––––––––
“Let me get this straight,” Maddock said. “There’s been at least two attempted murders here, and our prime suspect is the son of the man who just might be the Black Dahlia killer?”
“That sums it up nicely.” Riv took a sip of her margarita and waited for his next question.
“Where did all this come from?” Maddock pointed to the stack of papers.
There was a lot of information there.
Riv set her drink down on the coffee table, leaned forward, folded her hands. “A few weeks back, I hired someone to investigate Shipman.”
“What prompted that?” Maddock asked.
“He hadn’t done anything terrible, if that’s what you mean. It was the same stuff as before the race—always snooping around the sets, showing up in places he wasn’t supposed to be, the pervy stares. I just had a feeling, so I hired someone to dig into his past. With the show about to launch, I figured if we’ve got a dangerous neighbor, we ought to know about it.”
“The fact that Striker had a son seems to be new information,” Maddock said.
“I don’t think Gambles is aware of it.”
Riv took the papers from Grizzly and slowly began shuffling through them.
“Here’s what we know and what we believe,” Riv said. “Bryce Shipman was the son of an aspiring actress. Being a young, unmarried mother in 1959, the pregnancy ended her Hollywood dreams.”
Spenser muttered a curse that expressed just what she thought of that sort of misogyny.
“No father is listed on Shipman’s birth certificate,” Riv continued, “but when Shipman turned twenty-one, he received a substantial inheritance: this ranch, a vintage Jaguar XK120, and a whole
lot of money.”
“From Kirk Striker?” Maddock asked.
“From Jacob Critzer.” Riv held up a copy of the will. “Apparently, Striker kept his wealth under his birth name. That was a major breakthrough. We discovered that, in 1969, Critzer, aka Striker, wrote a check in the amount of ten thousand dollars to Shipman’s mother.”
“Unpaid child support?” Bones asked. “Why wait so long?”
“Maybe he didn’t know about the child at first,” Spenser offered. “Even if Shipman’s mother didn’t know Striker was a murderer, she might have got a glimpse of his dark side and decided to ghost him.”
“Ten years later, he somehow learns about the child and makes a conciliatory gesture,” Maddock said, thinking as he spoke.
Riv nodded. “We haven’t found records of any further payments. Doesn’t mean they didn’t happen, but my hunch is Shipman’s mother was desperate enough to accept the first check, but not so desperate that she was willing to allow Striker into her son’s life. Striker died two years later, in 1971.” Bones nodded. “So, he backed off and left everything to the son he would never know.”
“Ten years later and fresh out of university, Shipman claimed his inheritance and moved into Striker’s house,” Riv said.
“He had a house?” Grizzly asked.
“Oh, didn’t I mention? It appears Striker led a double life after moving to the UFO ranch. Shipman’s house, the one just a few miles away, was built in secret, or as secretly as he could manage, by Jacob Critzer. It’s a weird-looking place, too. He went with a castle motif, out here in the middle of the Mojave. Weirdo.” “Striker was known to disappear for days, even weeks at a time,” Grizzly said. “Everyone just assumed he was out prospecting, but maybe he was up to something else.”
“Sounds like he was chilling out at his casa,” Bones said.
“I think it goes deeper than that,” Maddock said. Pieces were falling into place.
“To the public, he’s crazy Kirk Striker, the writer who took his subject matter a bit too seriously and ended up going off the deep end. They see him as the scruffy, crazy guy who wanders the desert searching for lost treasure and running from men in black.”
“Never suspecting that when the urge strikes him,” Spenser said, catching on, “he takes on a new identity. He goes to his house, his real house, cleans up, cuts his hair, puts on his fancy clothes, and drives his flashy imported sports car over to Palm Springs or maybe LA. Even if one of the locals spotted him, they wouldn’t associate him with the mad prospector.”
“This was the middle of nowhere, so he wasn’t likely to be spotted coming and going, especially if he did it in the middle of the night,” Maddock said.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Bones said. “Striker changed his name to escape the reputation of his crazy father, but he ended up using that same name to continue his serial killing.”
“Assuming Gambles is correct in that theory,” Maddock said. He thought Gambles had it right, but he refused to convict Striker without evidence.
“The parallels between the lives of Shipman and Striker are...” Riv paused.
“Striking?” Grizzly offered.
Riv pretended she hadn’t heard. “If we’re correct about this, both had criminally insane fathers from whom they were estranged, but about whom they were desperate for information. Both interested in treasure hunting and conspiracy theories. Both loved to explore this patch of land.”
“Same land, same house, same car, same career,” Bones said absently.
Spenser let out a tiny gasp. “Remember what Megan Keane’s mother said?
Shipman wanted to know whether or not the children of murderers tended to be murderers themselves.”
“He wasn’t asking for the sake of his future children,” Maddock said. “He was asking for himself!”
A dark silence fell over the group. For a few minutes, no one seemed to know what to say, and the room was filled by the clinking of bottles and glasses, the crackle of the fire, and Bones’ slow, deep breaths as he teetered on the verge of sleep.
Spenser leaned in close, rested her chin on Maddock’s shoulder. “He’s a very relaxed person, isn’t he?” she whispered in his ear.
“Not relaxed; just oblivious,” Maddock said.
Bones didn’t open his eyes. “Screw you, Maddock.”
“You’ll have to take a number,” Spenser said to Bones. She shifted a little and rested her head against Maddock’s shoulder. Unfortunately, that shoulder was still badly bruised. Hot pain shot through him and he flinched.
Spenser sat bolt upright, her cheeks crimson. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” Maddock said. “Just bruised.”
“Oh, okay.” The air between them grew frosty and she wouldn’t meet his eye.
She folded her arms, sat back, and let out a sigh. “You know what’s bothering me?”
“The fact that Maddock’s awkward charm wears off after a couple of days?” Bones asked.
Riv hid her face behind her hand but didn’t manage to hide the grin.
“The caverns. What has Shipman been doing in there? Why does he want so desperately to keep us out?”
“Maybe that’s where he hides the bodies,” Bones said.
“That would explain why we found Megan Keane’s necklace in the caverns,” Maddock said.
“So, the treasure was just a myth all along?” Grizzly stared down at his beer. His face suddenly brightened. “But the viewers don’t need to know that. Just the rumor of treasure will buy us a few seasons.”
“What happens when you’re wandering the caverns searching for treasure and instead come across a body? Or several bodies?” Bones asked.
Grizzly smiled. “Our ratings double. Ratings gold is almost as valuable as the real thing.”
“I don’t think we should dismiss the treasure angle altogether,” Maddock said.
“Just because Striker might have been a killer doesn’t mean he wasn’t also a serious treasure hunter, and Gambles did say that Striker had particular interest in lost Spanish treasures.”
Spenser tapped a finger against her pursed lips, deep in thought. “If Megan wandered into the caverns, Shipman might have killed her to protect the secret of the treasure.”
“I hate to even bring this up,” Riv said. “It feels distasteful to even mention it, but the first episode of the new series starts very soon. We need to be able to guarantee the safety of our cast and crew. I can put procedures in place, maybe hire a couple more security guards, but it would be nice if our friendly neighborhood serial killer, if that’s what he is, is no longer a threat. If, Goddess forbid, he harmed one of our contestants, and we already knew about him...” She didn’t have to finish her thought.
“I suppose we can’t assassinate him,” Bones said. “I guess we should take this to Franzen. Gambles can talk with her, too. Give her the full picture.”
“I agree that she should be kept in the loop, but what can we actually prove right now?” Maddock asked. “A kooky treasure hunter left all his worldly possessions to his son, who understandably kept his parentage a secret so people wouldn’t think he, too, was a nut job.”
“But the murders,” Spenser said.
“We have no hard evidence. Lots of intriguing correlations, but that’s not enough. Don’t misunderstand. I think our theory is correct, but right now a theory is all we have.”
Bones rubbed his hands together. “So, let’s get some evidence.”
“Shipman is the key to everything,” Maddock said. “I say we take a break from the treasure hunt and instead focus on trying to find out what he’s been up to out in the desert.”
“Works for me. Grizzly and Riv can focus on their show. The three of us will zero in on Shipman. Let the caverns wait until you’re not so banged up.”
As everyone headed off to bed, Bones stood and announced that he and Mad- dock would sleep downstairs. No one felt as if they were in immediate danger, but with the new revelations about Shipman, it seeme
d like a good idea.
“You should really sleep in a bed,” Spenser said to Maddock. “You’re really banged up.”
“I’ll take a short watch and then go to bed,” Maddock said.
When the others had left, he turned to Bones. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Bones took a long look, assessing his condition. “Do you really think you’re up to it?”
“No, but I’m going anyway.”
Chapter 22
––––––––
Maddock didn’t bother to hide his limp as he and Bones climbed through the foothills in the direction of Bryce Shipman’s home. He was in bad shape, but Bones trusted him to judge whether or not he could handle what they were about to attempt and be honest about it. Right now, Maddock knew he was up to the hike, but anything more strenuous might be beyond him.
They came to a steep slope and Maddock accepted a hand up from his friend, letting out a grunt when hot pain shot along his arm. Right now, there was no part of him that didn’t hurt. Bones cast an appraising glance at him.
“What’s your plan?” Maddock asked by way of redirecting Bones’ thoughts.
“The plan is to wing it. Sneak over to Shipman’s house, see what we can see. Go from there.”
“Just like that?”
Bones flashed a wolfish grin. “It’s always worked for me in the past.”
Maddock was mentally listing the many times winging it had gone wrong when
Bones halted.
“Someone’s coming.”
An instant later, Maddock heard it, too. Footsteps coming toward them. They ducked beneath a juniper and waited. A few seconds later, Shipman appeared out of the darkness. Anger flared inside of Maddock. His first impulse was to grab the man and extract a few answers from him by any means necessary. But the flare of rage was quickly doused by common sense. They were likely to learn more by following the man and seeing what he was up to than by beating a confession out of him.
Shipman stopped a few feet away from the juniper and looked around. He craned his neck, listened, then headed off at a fast walk. But he wasn’t going toward either his home or the ranch. Instead, he headed out into the hills, moving in the general direction of the spot where Maddock and Bones had made their escape from the man in the black suit and his companions.
