New name?
Don’t go playing games, Malin. You know how easy it is to look up an IP address. We’re all family.
It’s not a coincidence you’re on here, is it?
All singles use Heartfree. All lonely singles, that is.
Are you lonely?
Sometimes. You are. You’re desperately seeking me.
There was nothing desperate about wanting to talk to him. Seeking you? she began to type and then changed it to: And you’re seeking who?
I’m here to find a way.
What do you mean a way?
He typed four more lines. This time poetry.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie.
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
She was about to google the first line when he carried on typing.
I’ve been up all night thinking.
Malin almost smiled. It sounded like the old Hollister, the Hollister who did a lot of thinking, especially at night. He had to take melatonin to get his mind to stop scuttling like a hamster in a wheel, or he would lose his mind.
Thinking about what?
When in Rome.
Rome is about five thousand miles away.
You’re about five thousand miles away.
Malin narrowed her eyes and considered this. If he was saying he missed her she wasn’t falling for it. Trouble was, she needed to unload, to talk to someone she trusted, someone she had been close to. And Hollister was always the first person who popped into her head. He was from a well-connected family, father ran for public office, mother was a Hampton’s socialite and it never seemed to amaze her that he lived in the slummiest area of town without so much as a hint of embarrassment. He said it was because he didn’t want women going hog-wild over his money. It was clever in hindsight, if indeed it were true.
Of course, she had done a little snooping herself when she lived in Camden. He had about sixty thousand in the bank, nothing to scoff at, nothing to get excited about either. He drove a white Toyota Highlander and bought his clothes from a dry cleaners down the road, the type that sold unclaimed suits. He had supernatural charm he could turn up on a whim and steely gray eyes that always appeared amused. And worse, he said he could never fathom why Malin―or any woman for that matter―wanted to get married. It was a tie he could do without, no back door to bolt through when things got tough.
Malin followed him to Alexander Avenue one night, a neighborhood in Maple Shade. She shrugged into a dark ski jacket, hair scooped up in a beanie, duty belt, cuffs and a nine millimeter. The only thing missing was a hand grenade.
She parked around the corner on Martin Avenue, a block down from Alexander and walked to the house. A white 1950 Cape Cod style set back from the street with a gabled roof and dormer windows, and a large wreath hanging on a red painted door.
It was nearly dusk when she climbed over the wall between the houses, caught her jeans on a nail and ripped them from crotch to knee. She landed in a dense thicket of buckthorn, narrowly avoiding a square of light from a brightly lit window.
A dry hinge squeaked on the back patio and she caught snatches of conversation drifting out onto a wide lawn. The voice was female, accusing, asking why he hadn’t called, why he hadn’t visited in over a month and why he wasn’t wearing uniform. She loved him, wanted him out there on the sun lounger in nothing but his black leather tactical boots. He could wear his insignia, those nice yellow bars, if he could think of where to wrap them. There was laughter then.
This woman was twelve years Hollister’s senior and happy to provide large withdrawals every time he made a deposit. It was clear why he favored the back door. It paid the rent.
Nausea rolled through Malin’s stomach and she tried to breathe. All she could remember was scuttling back to the car, jeans flapping around one thigh. She was thankful when the sound of an incoming message distracted her from that particular nightmare.
Are you there?
Malin waited just a few more seconds, enough to unravel a ribbon of scenarios that were playing out in her mind. Yes, I’m here.
Are you talking to someone else?
Was he actually jealous? She mulled over what to say, wanted to type maybe and then realized how childish it sounded. The delay alone would keep him guessing.
Got more important things to do, right?
She quickly typed. Nothing more important than you.
Glad to hear it. Glad to hear I’m still number one.
But I’m not, am I? Heard you were getting married.
You got that wrong. No chance of me getting married. Sounds like a life sentence to me.
It was true. Hollister would be hard pressed to tie the knot, but then this stripper was pregnant wasn’t she? Malin was fed up with typing, wanted to talk on the phone. Seriously, can we… she began to type and he beat her to it.
The mayor’s son. High profile case. Saw it on the news. You and Temeke?
As soon as she settled on a topic, Hollister seemed to change course and then he’d hit her with something new. She decided to let it go. Yes, yes and yes.
Has the kidnapper called?
He called the victim’s wife.
How did he sound?
Calm. Middle aged. He said he had the boy, wanted three hundred grand in ransom. Wanted half in hundreds, half in small denominations. Said it better not be sequenced or the boy’s dead. Malin blew out a loud breath. She didn’t want to tell him too much. We’ll find him. You know that.
This one’s different.
Why?
You won’t find him in the usual places. He’s never killed, never kidnapped. Had a speeding ticket in 2006. Bought a house in 2008. His name won’t be in the database. So don’t bother looking.
It was one of those moments when everything became a blur. She opened her mouth, not sure of what to think. You know him?
Met him once. Strange guy, closed off. A little angry. But then we all have an axe to grind.
Hollister had met him? Give me a name.
Think Malin. Most people who commit crimes aren’t always smart. They’re delusional, need money to drive their drug use. That’s their motive. This guy’s different. He’s dying. So in the days to come, he’ll lose the ability to plan because he won’t be able to get the painkillers he’s so dependent on. Ask yourself this. Why hasn’t he called again? Why hasn’t he kept in touch?
Hollister went silent. No little dots, no friendly bubble. How did he know who this kidnapper was?
Are you there?
He signed off then. Just like that. Malin sat in a fog for a moment clasping her head. She gave the computer a harsh, threatening look, picked up the phone and dialed his number.
“Listen,” she said to his voicemail. “I hate to intrude on your privacy, but it looks like it’s going to be a long night. I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with. You don’t just leave me hanging there with a statement like that! I’m going to keep calling this effing number until you pick up!”
TWENTY-FOUR
It was midnight when they climbed down that ladder, wind buffeting the packs and forcing them along the path to the west. A round moon gazed down from the sky, shrouding the trees in a ghostly shade of silver.
Adam felt his belly tremble. He was scared alright. He was a bit sick too. The rabbit had done a number on him in the cave and he’d had to pull his pants down five times. Ramsey had caught him perched on a low stone wall, scooped him up with both hands and told him not to crap on an ancient monument. Said it was sacred and defiling it was a fine of two hundred grand or life imprisonment. Made him use the ladder and do his business down there.
Adam knew he’d have the trots again before the night was out. This time it was worse like his bilge was filling with sewage and he had no idea where it was all coming from. If only if he could just wait until they were beyond the cliffs and trees . . .
Ramsey raised one hand and t
hey stopped for a while, staring at the track and the opposite slopes. Something scampered between the sand and rocks, stopped, and then went on again.
“Coyote,” Adam whispered.
“You saw it?” Ramsey edged his way in the shadows beneath the cliff. He was limping a bit but that didn’t seem to stop him. “Those rangers have gone on ahead.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
Adam felt his nose run, wanted to blow it real bad so he wiped it on his sleeve instead. “Can they see us?”
“They’ll hear us if you don’t shut up.”
Adam gripped onto the straps at his shoulders, felt a familiar stab of pain in his side. He’d have to ignore it for now until they were at least a hundred yards beyond the cliffs. There was wide open country then and only a few piñon trees to squat behind. His butt was sore and he was shaky and soaked with sweat.
He could hear the occasional rattle of pebbles beneath his feet, saw Ramsey lift his hand to warn him. The sky was darker in the west and so was the land and as they walked under a myriad of stars, Adam remembered the scout troop he’d left behind. He could picture the tents, a pulsing campfire and a pot full of beans. And he could hear the ghost stories that everyone liked best. He missed them all and he wondered if they missed him.
It was an hour before the cliffs became a flat-topped promontory fading out into a talon of rock. It was barely a glimmer now in the distance and they were walking through tufts of long grass tall enough to reach their shins. There was no sign of the rangers. Just a dark horizon ahead and a few scrawny bushes reaching upwards like dead men’s fingers.
Ramsey stopped for a while to get his bearings, didn’t need a compass, didn’t need a map. He pointed to the hull of an old boat, only Adam told him it wasn’t an old boat. It was the hollowed out husk of a tree. It had been lying on its side for hundreds of years, smooth and calcified and dry.
They hung the tarp down from the top edge and weighted it with rocks, spread out their wet coats on the ground. Ramsey gathered what he could of the kindling, made a small fire and fanned it to life, sparks hurtling into the night sky.
“I need toilet paper,” Adam moaned.
“There’s no toilet paper. You can’t want to go again.”
“I do.” Adam gripped his buttocks with one hand as if it would prevent a sudden blow.
He began hopping too. First on one leg and then the other, and then he dropped both the duffel bag and his pants before Ramsey could count to three.
“I feel better now,” he said afterwards.
Ramsey’s head was bent over and his shoulders were shaking. “By the laws of gravity your insides should have fallen out by now.”
It wasn’t funny. It was the rabbit that made him purge. “Give me some paper. Please!”
“You can have a pile of grass like before. And that’s my final offer.”
Grass wasn’t half bad. It was leaves Adam hated the most. Prickly and cold against your skin and soaking from the rain. But it got the worse off and that’s all that mattered.
Ramsey showed him how to hold a gun, showed him how to aim, except it was too dark to shoot it. They drank hot chocolate and ate marshmallows and talked about their favorite movies.
“Jurassic Park,” Adam said. “That’s mine.”
Ramsey sighed and looked up for a time. “The Deer Hunter, that’s mine.”
The wind coming off the grass smelled faintly of corn husks and the faint susurration of the feathery tufts nearly put Adam to sleep. Ramsey left the jug out for the rain before they lay down for the night.
In the morning there was a faint rumble of thunder and a few spits of rain that pattered on the tarp. They ate the last of the venison for breakfast and buried the rest of that rabbit before striking camp. Adam knew Ramsey had been sick in the night, heard him retching too. He wondered if there were a few pages missing from that book and decided to ask.
“Of course I didn’t use any,” Ramsey said, giving Adam a drink of water before folding the tarp. “Paper’s for girls.”
Being with Ramsey was different to being with his dad, the tired old man who rarely smiled. It wasn’t his dad’s fault. It was his job, so his mom said. Being Mayor of Albuquerque had its downs, especially when he rarely came home. When he did, he was sleeping mostly, didn’t want to play cards, didn’t want to walk the dog. No, this was more like being with his mom, someone you could tell jokes with, someone who found the world a fun place to live in.
Ramsey shook out the cups and looked down at Adam’s upturned face, gave him a wink. “Wanna hear a joke?”
Adam nodded. It probably wouldn’t be funny. Old people never made jokes funny. But it was funny. Side-splittingly funny and his body began to quake, breaths hitching. He must have laughed all the way to a clump of trees darkened from a forest fire. They recited cuss words to see who knew the ugliest and then they talked about the meaning and where the words came from.
“Course you mustn’t use those words in front of a lady,” Ramsey insisted. “Probably shouldn’t use them at all.”
He pointed at a low stone wall about fifteen feet from where they were. “Must be the foundations of an old homestead. There’s a few round here, old and gnarled and burned to the ground.” he said, unscrewing the cap off the water jug.
“Did all the people die?”
“Mostly,” Ramsey nodded, looking around. “They died of cholera. Can’t see any headstones. Can you?”
Adam shook his head. All he could see were dark shadows from horizon to horizon and acres of grass where the sun shone down. He hated the gray emptiness of death and he was scared of it too. “They’re not underneath us are they?”
“Dang, you’re not scared of skulls and bones are you?”
Adam didn’t like the idea of skulls and bones wandering about and causing a ruckus. “Oh, no. I was just wondering that’s all.”
“Well that’s good. Cause I don’t want some cry baby worried about skulls and bones going on a scare bender.”
“They do?”
“Do what?”
“Go on scare benders.”
“There was a time when I used to sleep rough out by the volcanoes,” Ramsey said, looking off in the distance. “But you don’t want to hear about that.”
Adam damn well did. And urgently. “The ones out by Grants?”
Ramsey nodded and handed the jug to Adam. “It was back in the 1900s. Three girls went hiking after church in the spring. Went all alone without a chaperone. Police didn’t know what they were doing out there in their Sunday best. Couldn’t find them. All they did find was a lace glove and a straw hat. And further up in a heap of ash, a pink ribbon. They were never seen again. But I heard them one night… screaming.”
Adam nearly gulped on that water. “Screaming?”
“I often think of them when I go there. Sixteen, seventeen… too young to die. Pretty too. I dream of them sometimes. The wind blows ash tens of thousands of miles away… and it blew those screams. I wish I could have done something.”
1900… Adam tried to do the math in his head and gave up after a few seconds. “How old are you?”
Ramsey grinned. “Old enough.”
Maybe Ramsey was already dead. Maybe he was just a ghost limping about in the long grass and babbling on like one too. But he wasn’t limping. He didn’t seem to give that wound much mind and he was walking faster like it never happened, putting on a brave face.
They sat on one of those stone walls, ate crackers and drank water and then went on again. It was hard going with the duffel on his back but Adam wasn’t giving up. He sensed ghosts in the sighing pines that grew along the route and wondered if Ramsey was just hallucinating with all that stuff he snorted. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette since they left the lodge because he said the reek would give them away.
“Ever smelled a yellowbelly?” Ramsey pressed his nose against the thick, flaky bark of a Ponderosa. “It’s like cinnamon.”
All Adam
could smell was wet earth and the occasional whiff of butterscotch. He was tired of wading through drifts of pine needles and patches of snow one day to clear blue skies the next, and he was tired of smelling like a porta-potty.
It was late afternoon before they reached a meadow of corn-colored grass and a hunter’s cabin. Each stalk swayed back and forth in a fickle wind, whispering and chattering as if something lived in it.
“Can’t see them, but I know they’re there,” Ramsey murmured.
“Who?”
“Better do it now. Better do it slow.” Ramsey raised one eyebrow and flicked a quick glance at Adam. “Before the raptors come.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Serena had called again and they’d talked. Only this time she wanted to see him right away and that made Temeke jumpy. He hoped it wasn’t another round of accusations and torture, and he hoped she’d leave him with some furniture this time. Eleven thirty today. In the park. He wouldn’t forget.
Temeke was wondering how to drop the news to Fowler about that jawbone he’d found. Everything was beginning to look prehistoric these days, even Hackett’s suits. He had already interviewed the majority of the Mayor’s staff the week before. There were only three left.
He looked at his cell phone, kept wondering if Serena would change her mind. There were a few unavailable numbers and some he didn’t recognize. It was during one of those blind moments when he convinced himself it was her, too scared to identify herself, too scared to tell him how she really felt. It was a chance in a sodding million.
Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) Page 13
