Then it hit him, so obvious he was furious at himself for not thinking of it sooner.
Dancer. The dancer has the notes.
He moved to it quickly and set it down on her desk. The end of the tune weakly tinkled as the ballerina carne to the end of her dance.
Within seconds, he found the false bottom and pulled it up. A stack of notes filled the bottom. He removed the stack and went back to Kelsie’s desk, reading the top note as he walked, so stunned by the words that he was hardly aware that he’d found his way to the chair.
Darling, please show how truly you love me. Delay my request no longer. It is tedious and dangerous work to remove snake fangs. Next time I may not have the patience. Next time I may leave the gift for someone close to you. Remember the others.
The handwriting was in dark, heavy pencil. At the top, in Kelsie’s neat handwriting, was a date, the previous Thursday. Clay was staggered by the implications of the note. Snake fangs? Had Kelsie been attacked by a snake? And not said anything to him?
He flipped the note over and read the next one. It was dated with Kelsie’s handwriting two weeks earlier.
Darling, here is my request. I have been very patient, enduring for years already the time you have spent with another man. Now, however, you must live separately from him, Find a place in town. If you don’t, he will die. If he hears of me, he will die. Then, too, will your son. Keep the silence. You know this is not an empty threat.
Clay felt the strange mixture of rage, relief, and frustration. There was another man in Kelsie’s life, but not in the way he had feared. Instead, it was much worse than he had feared. The monster had bludgeoned Kelsie with threats and terror...
Clay went through note after note, all with the same penciled block letters. They were arranged in reverse dates, as if Kelsie had put each note on top of the other as they arrived in her life. He felt sick as he read one from 1988:
Your cowboy will ride no more rodeos. Michael is dead too. They would have lived, had you not defied me. Will you remember the lesson now? Save yourself for me. Someday, I promise, we will be together .
He flipped through more notes and saw one dated ten years earlier:
You wake up to this note, my love. Let me be the first to tell you. The ski instructor has moved on from this world. He went quickly, too quickly for me to enjoy. But the end result is the same. Again, it is only you and me. See how I love you? I tolerate no others and never will, Your love is my power, and my power is your love.
In March of 1976:
Nathan is dead, my love. The fool dared to attempt taking you away from me. The world will see it as a drug overdose, but you and I know differently, do we not? As always, I do this with the love that burns forever.
Another note sent waves of revulsion through Clay.
Undress near the window tonight, my love. You know how I love to watch. I need not mention the consequences if you disappoint me.
Clay bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. What an incredible burden she had had to carry for all these years! What had it been like for her? The information James had given him earlier in the day only hinted at her lonely torment: quitting school, broken heart, clinical depression. Clay thought it was a miracle the woman’s spirit had not been broken.
He forced himself to return to the notes. The one at the bottom, dated the earliest, July, 1973, struck him with words like bullets.
My love, I am not dead. The world may believe I died in the cabin fire, but I promise you, I still carry my love for you. Do you now understand how far beyond the fools of this world I am? Even in the writing of this note, you should see how I am able to toy with those fools. There is no more need to pretend I am something I am not. The false scent given by broken grammar and almost crazed ramblings is gone. Why? I am assured you will not pass this note – or future ones – on to anyone. For if you do share the knowledge that I am alive, I will strike those nearest to you. They will pay the price for your betrayal. Do my bidding in all things, my love, and all shall be good. Fail me, and more shall follow Doris and Nick into the dark beyond.
The burden had been upon her since the summer of her sixteenth birthday, Clay thought. Everyone else in her life had moved on, believing the horror over, and she’d been left to carry the agony for the rest of them.
Clay placed the notes back together, in the order he had read them. His hands moved with slow, precise actions, as if he were brittle and the slightest movement might break him. And that was exactly how he felt. Brittle, old, and sorrowfully afraid for Kelsie.
12:30 p.m.
James McNeill, sitting in his usual chair overlooking the valley, had his cordless telephone in his lap. He knew he would use it, just didn’t want to. He was afraid of what he might find out.
Reluctant or not, he would make the call. Kelsie and Taylor were gone. Clay had his own ways of trying to find them. James would do what he could. If he found anything to help Clay, he would pass it along. If the phone call gave James nothing, then he himself could close the lid on this can of worms and leave an old friendship intact.
All of this because of Sonny Cutknife. James had given the unexpected visit much thought. Sonny Cutknife had come in, blustering with his innuendoes and an Emerald Canyon payoff. Earlier, Kelsie had dropped her Emerald Canyon accusations. It was obvious, then, that there was a dead and stinking skunk buried somewhere. Sonny and Kelsie both figured James was it.
He wondered if Emerald Canyon had anything to do with Kelsie’s disappearance. What had she told him the morning Taylor was kidnapped? A $55 million lawsuit against six corporations. Corporate directors facing criminal charges. A scandal ripping apart the power structure of the entire valley.
If she’d accused anyone else – say, an owner of one of those corporations – was the threat of a lawsuit and criminal charges reason enough for that person to have kidnapped her? Especially if it might seem like the kidnapping happened for an unrelated reason?
James wanted to find. out. If it was information Clay needed, Clay would get it, regardless of the consequences.
Sonny had given James one name, the name of a man James hoped was not part of those six corporations. If he was, James wondered, would years of friendship and favors be enough to get some of the truth?
There was only one way to find out. James began to dial.
The phone on the other end of the line rang five times. The phone was answered with a long pause before someone finally said, “Anderson residence.”
James blinked. This was not Wayne. The voice was younger, stronger, and hesitant.
“I’d like to speak with Wayne,” James said.
“May I tell him who is calling?”
“An old friend.”
“I’d appreciate it if –”
“You tell Wayne if he’s got to screen his calls, he’s a sorry old twit trying to seem important.”
James grinned. He knew that would get Wayne on the phone immediately, huffing and puffing with indignation.
James heard the sound of the phone being set down. There was muffled background discussion enough to puzzle James.
The phone was picked up. “Mr. McNeill,” a voice said. “This is Sheriff Matt Brody. How are you today?”
Brody? What was happening.
“I’m fine,” James said. “I’d also appreciate knowing what’s going on. Why have some young snot ask me for my name if you already know?”
“Caller I.D. Anderson had it on his phone system. My deputy was merely trying to confirm it was you. When he passed on your message for Anderson, it seemed likely to be you.”
Had? Anderson had it on his phone system? Why speak of Anderson in the past tense? For that matter, why was the sheriff at Anderson’s? And answering Anderson’s phone?
“This is a real coincidence,” Brody said. "You were on my list of people to call. Partly because of Anderson and partly because of your son-in-law.”
“Clay?”
“Yeah. He’s not up at the ranch. Any idea wh
ere we can find him?”
“He called me maybe an hour ago to see if I’d heard anything,” James answered. “Said he was looking for Russ Fowler. I told him about Russ being in the hospital. I assume he went there. You want to tell me what’s happening?”
“With Clay? I’m not sure yet. I was on my way to his ranch when I got radioed here,” Brody said. “As for this? First Evans. Now Anderson. Someone’s on a hot streak right now. This is Kalispell, not Los Angeles. I’m supposed to deal with car break-ins and speeding tickets, not murder.”
1:05 p.m.
“Let me tell you straight off so you don’t sit there wondering,” Russ Fowler told Clay. “It’s a lymph node cancer. I intend to kick around awhile longer, no matter what the doctors tell me.”
Clay wondered if he’d been able to hide his surprise when he walked into the hospital room and saw Fowler lost in the center of the bed. Clay remembered the former sheriff as a vigorous, barrel-chested man. If ever a person needed to understand the frailty of human life, Fowler would have provided the lesson, Clay thought. The skin on his skull and face had tightened to the point of shininess; on the rest of his body his skin sagged where muscle and flesh had disappeared.
“I’ve gotten used to most of it,” Fowler continued. “Even the pain gets to be something you can’t imagine you ever lived without. What I hate, though, is the food. Not that it’s bad. I’d like it if I could tell it was bad. No, for some reason I can’t taste. You can’t believe how much you lose when you can’t taste.”
Clay was looking around. Fowler was in a private suite. How much would that cost? Where had Fowler gotten the money for it? No health insurance paid for private suites.
“You did good after you left the valley. What was it? Twenty-some years ago? I heard you moved up fast in the Bureau. Made a name for yourself. Glad to hear it.”
Fowler was talking plenty, Clay thought. Probably trying to plug any silence before it got started. Curious as Clay was, angry as he was, however, he sat down and settled back in a chair. No sense warning Fowler.
“I heard about your wife,” Fowler said. “Small town. People make a point of keeping me informed.”
“It’s exactly why I’m here,” Clay said. “The night that Nick Buffalo died up on the mountain? I don’t think he was the one who stalked Kelsie. And I’ve got the notes to prove it.”
Fowler merely nodded, his eyes half-closed as if he wasn’t too interested.
“Look,” Clay said, “you did the wrap-up work while I was in the hospital. Everything came out nice and clean. If it was someone else, not Nick Buffalo, you would have seen some of those loose ends.”
“That’s right,” Fowler said. “There were some loose ends. And it was convenient you were in the hospital while I put everything together.”
“And?” Clay’s anger grew. “What loose ends did you tie into a pretty little package?”
“I’ve been sitting on this for a quarter-century,” Fowler said. He grimaced in pain and shifted positions. “I’ll be honest. If I was healthy, I might be tempted to sit on it a while longer. Course, now I don’t have much to lose anymore. And who knows, if there is a big judge up there, maybe Saint Peter will give me a break.”
Fowler shifted again. “That night you got shot? You’re right, when we pinned things on Nick Buffalo, we pinned the wrong man.”
“You’re going to tell me that in the course of an investigation, you and the coroner and whoever else mopped it up lied about the body in the cabin?”
“No, it was Nick, all right. I’m just saying he didn’t shoot you. I believe he was dead beforehand. Whoever killed him left him there as the scapegoat. With what you tell me you know already, you could have guessed that.”
“And you knew this for a fact?” Clay was growing angrier. All these years of believing Kelsie’s stalker was dead. All these years of imagined safety. All these years of the monster lurking just out of sight.”
“This never got out because we didn’t let it get out. Behind the shell of the cabin, away from the burned-out area, we found sawdust in the grass where wind had blown it into the roots. A lab tech checked it against core samples of some of the half-burned logs of the cabin. Perfect match.”
“Someone had sawn out part of the cabin?”
“After reading your report and listening to James McNeill give his version of the events, here’s what I think happened,” Fowler said. “You got shot. The shooter raced back to the cabin and kept shooting from in there. He started the fire and left through a hole cut in the back. No one was going to see him in the night, not with the flames as a distraction.”
Fowler coughed up some phlegm and spat it into a cup. He took a few deep breaths. “There were other inconsistencies. The suicide confession note that the media loved? You might recall we were looking for Nick to ask him questions. First time we searched the place to pick him up for questioning, the note wasn’t there. We didn’t find Nick; we didn’t find the note. When we returned after Nick was dead, the paint on the front door was scratched. Someone had jimmied the lock, probably with a screwdriver. One of the neighbors told us about seeing a light moving around the house late at night. It was an easy guess that someone had planted the note.”
“The handwriting?”
“His. I couldn’t hide a discrepancy that big.”
“Someone forced him to write it.”
“Sure. Plus there was the feather headdress on his bed. As you know, the feathers matched the ones left with Kelsie and the one we found in Doris Samson’s mouth. Even though finding it seemed strange, it also tied everything together to end the case file. I’ve never understood why it was there. It wasn’t there the first time we visited, but it was there the second.”
Clay was leaning forward in his chair. “You buried all this information.”
“Clay, there was a lot of pressure on me to have the case solved. I figured I’d pin it on Nick and quietly keep looking.”
“You forgot to fell me.”
Fowler looked away from Clay. “It wasn’t forgetfulness. You were leaving the valley, and the last thing I wanted was you in my hair again.”
Clay stood. “Whoever did this just walked. Did you stop to think that he might keep stalking Kelsie?”
“I did think about that.”
“And?”
“And about every month or so I’d make a point of asking her if things were still fine. I figured if he showed up again, she’d tell me. It didn't seem right, though, to tell her why I was asking. If he hadn’t shown up, I didn’t want to get her scared for nothing by telling her he was still alive.”
“Twenty-three years is a cold trail, sheriff.”
“I’ve kept all my notes and records. I expect you’ll want them.”
“You expect right.”
Fowler closed his eyes. His breathing stilled. For a few moments, Clay wondered if he had fallen asleep or if indeed the man had breathed his last breath.
“I’m not accustomed to asking another man his business,” Fowler finally said without opening his eyes. “But I’ve been wondering this for some time, and of late, it has become a more compelling question.”
“Go on,” Clay said.
“How have you hung on?” Fowler asked.
“Hung on?” Clay didn’t feel comfortable discussing matters of his heart. Not with a stranger. “Hung on? How can you ask? It’s my wife and son.”
“No,” Fowler said, “I wasn’t talking about Kelsie. How have you hung on to God? I’ve heard you’re a churchgoing man. Me, I gave it up. You might remember I worked for the LAPD before taking the job here. Walking through the sewers of the worst that people can do – how could I believe in God with that kind of filth around me? You must have seen worse, plenty worse. How is it you still believe in a good God?”
Clay’s mind flashed back to cases he had worked on: The woman whose entrails had been spilled from her body cavity, and a footstep in the entrails, showing how the killer had stood on them to let her cra
wl until she died, her intestines unraveling behind her like an obscene snake; the fifteen bodies of teenage boys that had been found decomposing in shallow graves dug into the cellar floor of a church deacon’s house; pitchers of human blood stored in the refrigerator of a retired schoolteacher; and girls taken from street corners and found days later, torn like abandoned dolls. Clay had stepped into the caves of hell, peered into the minds of the demonic. It had driven him to the point of surrender, where he’d felt himself pulled into the swirling morass of dark, unreasoning evil. And beyond all of that, there was still in him the question that echoed through the decades, an angry cry of defiance to the God who had allowed a coal truck to take away the woman and child of a young man barely twenty. Did Fowler understand how often he had wrestled with the same question?
“Are you going to make a religious decision based on how I answer?” Clay asked.
“Don’t feel responsible for my soul,” Fowler said. “Whatever I’m wrestling with has nothing to do with you.”
Clay stood, moved to the hospital window, and stared down at the parking lot. Fowler had asked the question with honesty. Despite his anger, Clay would reply in turn.
“If it means anything,” Clay said after a minute of thought, “when I got around to believing, evil as much as anything else pointed me toward God.”
Clay pulled a chair over to the hospital bed. He hated seeing the tubes pushed in the nostrils of the sagging old man, hated seeing spotted skin so close to the bone on his once powerful arms and hands. Fowler had never been a friend – in fact, had once been close to an enemy. Fowler had hidden key evidence that might well be the single biggest reason Clay now had to search for his own wife and son. Still, each shared the inescapable. Bodies disintegrate over time. What was happening to Fowler now would happen to Clay later. How could Clay not feel compassion for the man?
Blood Ties Page 26
