Cameron continued answering reporters’ questions for a while longer, then turned the discussion over to Mayor Robert Redman, who fielded questions from residents. Most wanted to know what was being done to keep them safe. It was a peaceful discussion and for the most part, everyone seemed as satisfied as they could be, considering the circumstances. When it was over, Cameron thanked everyone for coming, relieved to be finished.
But if he’d thought he could just walk away after that, Cameron was sadly mistaken. Immediately, Casey Gold came scurrying toward him, waving her hand, and looking like she was about to miss a train. The same heavyset cameraman was right behind her, waddling along, trying to balance an increasingly cumbersome camera on his shoulder.
“Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind, deputy,” said Casey, with a wide grin that revealed a lipstick-smudged tooth. She swung the microphone into Cameron’s face, missing him by just inches.
He hadn’t appreciated her behavior before and didn’t now, either.
“Actually, I do mind.” He pushed the microphone away, and spoke stiffly. “The press conference is over, and I believe you already got the chance to ask your question. And it’s assistant sheriff, not deputy. You’re a reporter. Get your titles straight.”
He continued walking, trying to put as much distance between them as possible, not bothering to turn around to catch her reaction.
Unfazed by the abrupt dismissal, Casey continued following right behind him. “Okay, assistant sheriff,” she said in a deep voice that mocked him.
Cameron stopped, shot her a stony look, and then continued walking.
“Just one quick question,” she begged, peddling beside him, and trying to keep pace.
Finally, he stopped, sighed deeply, and gave in. Casey Gold, Cameron had decided, was a lot like a bad cough; she wasn’t going to leave quickly or easily. “All right. Let’s get it over-with, then.”
Casey’s eyes lit up with delight, and she signaled for her cameraman to come closer. Immediately, the reporter snapped into action. Gone, suddenly, was the catty, high-pitched voice that had grated on Cameron nerves. Instead, her delivery became smooth, authoritative, and deep.
“Assistant sheriff, why are you hiding specific details about these cases from the public?” she asked, her voice gradually growing louder, more hostile. “Six people have been murdered. Don’t you think they have a right to know what’s going on?”
For a few seconds Cameron said nothing, realizing she’d just set him up.
Casey leaned over and whispered into Cameron’s ear, “payback’s a bitch.” Then she stepped back with an eager smile. “Assistant sheriff? Comment, please?”
Cameron shot her a look that did not hide his annoyance or his anger, but let it fade, reminding himself he was on-camera. “Naturally, in any investigation, there’s going to be evidence that’s sensitive and won’t be released if it will jeopardize the case—”
Casey stepped closer, interrupting him with the stomp of her foot, while at the same time, moving in for the kill. Her cosmetics polluted the air with their thick, sweet smell, a cross between Aqua Net hairspray and pancake syrup. A crowd began forming around them. “How much longer do you think you can put off the public by throwing out these canned, over-prepared statements that, in reality, amount to nothing?”
Cameron bit down hard and felt his jaw tighten. His temper flared. He’d had it. “We are not putting off the public—that’s absolutely ridiculous—you know it as well as I do, Ms. Gold. And we are not throwing out any canned phrases. This is a murder investigation—”
“And being a murder investigation,” she interrupted, nodding her head to make her own point, with a shadow of a smile, “the people of this town have the right to know what’s going on. Are you even aware how frightened they’ve become?”
“What kind of question is that?” asked Cameron, outraged. “Of course I’m aware. How could I not be aware of—”
“People bolting their doors at night? Parents afraid to send their children off to school? And this is all you can offer them? This worn-out, hollow statement that this is a murder investigation?” Her face suddenly softened, her voice taking on a tone that feigned diplomacy. “Come on, sheriff. Surely, you can do better than this. As one of the chief law enforcement officers in this town, I think you owe them more.”
“Like I said, before, we’re doing everything—”
“What? What are you doing? Tell me … what? Better yet, tell the good people of Faith what you’re doing. But please … tell them the truth. They deserve at least that.”
Everyone around them was staring. Cameron felt the sweat trailing down the side of his face. The bright light from the camera wasn’t helping matters; it felt hot against his skin, like tiny daggers. But before he could speak, he heard another woman’s voice rise from the crowd, slicing cleanly through all the commotion.
“I have a question for you, Ms. Gold,” the voice said, calm and confident. “When are you going to back off and let him do his job?”
The cameraman swung around, taking the spotlight out of Cameron’s face, allowing him to see again. But he could barely believe his own eyes.
The crowd parted as Senator Connie Champion approached, her smile so confident, so icy, it gave even Casey Gold pause. The reporter shifted her head toward her, eyes wide, hands clenched into tight fists like a child caught in the act.
Champion stepped out in front of Cameron. She might as well have had the words: “I mean business” written across her forehead. She did.
In an attempt to save herself, Casey half-heartedly floated the microphone toward the senator, as if presenting her with a rare opportunity to speak.
Champion, not the least bit impressed, pushed it away with one broad stroke of her hand, then leaned forward so only the reporter could hear. Her voice was unmistakably calm, yet unmistakably stern. “Ms. Gold, perhaps we should talk about Chicago.” She raised an eyebrow, then added, “You remember that, don’t you?”
Casey’s eyes widened with surprise, her once-loud, booming voice now deflating to nearly a whisper. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“Two years ago in Chicago? Champion said, moving in a step closer. “Where you used to work? That ugly incident with—”
Before the senator could finish, Casey turned to her cameraman. Eyes closed, jaw jutting out, she dragged her index finger across her throat, signaling for him to stop rolling.
The spotlight powered off so fast it looked as if the bulb had blown.
The senator placed her hand on the trembling reporter’s shoulder, leaned over, and whispered into her ear, “Now run along, dear.”
Then she stepped back and smiled, as if admiring her own work.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she continued, “I need to speak with Sheriff Dawson. In case you hadn’t heard, my daughter was murdered, and he’s trying to find the killer. That is, if you’ll let him.”
Cameron fought hard to keep his mouth from falling wide-open.
Connie Champion had arrived in Faith.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sheriff’s Station
Faith, New Mexico
The senator was sitting across from Cameron’s desk when he walked in and placed a cup of vending machine coffee in front of her. She looked up at him and smiled her thank you. He nodded and settled into his chair.
A few seconds of silence lingered before she cleared her throat and spoke. “I actually hadn’t planned on coming here. But then I realized that sitting at home and thinking about my daughter wasn’t doing me a bit of good.” She stopped, looked down at her hands, and shook her head, her voice decidedly softer now. “My husband … he’s devastated. They were very close.”
“It’s rough,” Cameron said, “for both of you.”
The senator grasped her cup but did not lift it, staring at it, nodding. “I understand his grief. I really do. I guess what I’m having trouble with, are his feelings of utter helplessness.”
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“It’s a normal reaction,” Cameron said. He was thinking about his own past, his own helplessness.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, looking up, raising a hand. “It’s not that I don’t feel the same way at times. I do. It’s just that he and I, well … I suppose we just handle our emotions differently.”
“The death of a child,” Cameron said, “something like that—it can cause stress on even the strongest marriages.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “You say that almost as if you’ve seen it happen. But I suppose in your line of work, you probably have.”
Cameron nodded and smiled noncommittally.
“As for me, well, I guess I just prefer to stay active. Seems to help, keeps me from wandering into those dangerous corners of my mind.”
“Dangerous?”
“Oh, you know: Should I have done this? What if I’d done that? Second-guessing myself … the way a mother often does.” She shrugged and shook her head. “All that self-doubt—it does no good, just leaves you feeling empty inside… and then devastated. It’s a vicious game we all play with ourselves at one time or another, I suppose, but rarely does it serve any purpose: In the end, you end up losing. Stinking thinking, I call it, you know what I mean?”
Boy, did he.
“Anyway… I knew if I stayed at home, that’s just where I was headed. Then I heard about the news conference and I figured: what the hell? Maybe I could help out in some way. I suppose my timing was good.”
Cameron didn’t say anything, his run-in with Casey Gold still leaving a nasty aftertaste.
“I wouldn’t let that incident with Gold get you down, by the way,” said the senator as if reading Cameron’s mind, in a soft, reassuring manner, one clearly intended to offer him solace. “She’s a shark, and a dirty one at that.”
“No argument there,” he replied, hand around his cup, staring at it, nodding.
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first to get snagged by her claws,” she said, “and I suspect you won’t be the last, either. She pulled the same stunt with me some time ago while I was visiting in Albuquerque … caught me completely off-guard. Seems to be her specialty.”
“She does it well.”
“Hardly to her credit. The only way to battle her, I’ve found, is to fight back with equal measure. You just have to know how to push the right buttons to shut her down. In this case, knowledge was power.”
“More coffee?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” she said, raising a hand in protest. “I shouldn’t even be having this one. I’ll be up all night … although, with everything going on, I doubt I’d be able to sleep, anyway.”
Cameron had never met the senator before. He’d only seen her on television every now and then. Meeting her in person now, he could see how she’d become such a powerful politician. She was clearly a woman of substance—extremely bright, exquisitely attractive, and brimming with class.
She tipped the empty cup toward herself, staring into it, then looked up and met his eyes. For the first time, Cameron saw her sorrow, could feel it, and the moment felt awkward.
The senator looked down into her lap, then ran a hand across the fabric of her skirt with a smoothing motion. When she raised her head again, she seemed to emerge a different person, reverting back to the strong, confident woman he’d seen earlier at the press conference. “I’m hoping you’ll be as forthright with me as I’m being with you. I need to know you’re doing everything you can to find my daughter’s killer.”
“I told you in our phone conversation that I plan on keeping you informed throughout this investigation, and I want you to know I meant it. You have every right to know what’s happening.”
“Thank you,” she said, nodding. “I appreciate that.”
He paused, looking at her appraisingly. “At the same time, I need your reassurance that certain information will remain just between us. It’s crucial if we’re going to find your daughter’s killer.
She nodded once. “Understood.”
He looked down at his hands, rubbing them together, biting his lower lip. Connie looked at him curiously.
It took him several seconds to speak. “I know what you’re going through right now. With your daughter, I mean …”
“Trust me, nobody knows. Nobody can, until it—”
“I lost my own son.” Cameron blurted it out.
Connie’s expression instantly turned blank.
“I lost my son,” Cameron said again, this time much softer, with regret. “It was several years ago.”
“Oh, no ... my God … I’m so sorry.” And she was. Tears began to filling her eyes. Even with the pain of her daughter’s murder fresh in her mind, she was able to consider someone else’s.
Cameron cleared his throat, made an attempt to appear strong. “But I’m not telling you this because I’m looking for sympathy—it’s because I want you to know I understand what you’re feeling right now. Really understand. Not many people can say that to you and mean it … I can.” He looked down into his lap and stopped for a moment. His voice softened. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you,” Connie said, her voice barely a whisper. She closed her eyes and nodded, trying to hold her composure. “Thank you for telling me. Thank you for this.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
45687 Monument Path Way
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Kyle continued staring at the image in Bethany’s eyes.
The woman was dressed all in white; she was falling, plummeting, and twisting through the air, her body moving into positions one was never meant to go. The farther down she spiraled, the faster and more exaggerated her movements became.
Just for a second, Kyle made eye contact with her—it was a dark, eerie moment. The woman’s expression couldn’t have been clearer; she was begging Kyle to save her, but she couldn’t—she, too, was a prisoner, her body tightly bound by restraints she could feel but not see.
The woman’s body slammed into concrete, producing a resounding, hollow thud. Kyle could hear it … and feel it. The vibration curled through her own body.
Kyle woke herself up screaming. It took her a few minutes to realize she wasn’t in her dream anymore, that she was safe.
Her arms felt like they were on fire. When she looked down, deep red indentations marred them, the exact spots where they’d been bound to her sides. Just a dream, she told herself, knowing it was much more than that. The sense of danger, the helpless feelings of vulnerability; they all seemed so real, and the welts on her arms proved it.
It was time, she’d decided, to begin sorting through all the shattered fragments: the locked doors, the empty hallways, the moans, the human stampede, and the woman in white falling to her death. She needed to start making sense of it.
The setting was clearly some sort of hospital, but what kind of facility was it, and where? She thought about the restraints, the tormented moans. Was she inside a sanitarium? If that were the case, then there was still one element missing: The patients. She’d never seen one.
She only heard them.
Her mind kept coming back to that woman falling through the air, her eyes begging for Kyle to help spare her life. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake the image. Had she fallen, or had someone pushed her? The sound of her body slamming into the pavement kept playing over and over in Kyle’s head.
That hollow thud.
And what about the voice she’d heard pleading to make it stop. Make what stop? Bethany hadn’t told her—she’d shown her. Are the patients being restrained in a similar manner? Is that why I can’t see them?
The deceased never crossed the line between life and death unless strongly compelled to do so. In Kyle’s experience, it was always about unfinished business.
Unfinished business indeed, she thought. Bethany seemed to have plenty of it.
Now all Kyle needed to do was figure out what that was.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sheriff�
��s Station
Faith, New Mexico
Connie Champion sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, listening intently, while Cameron laid out the facts surrounding her daughter’s death.
He took a deep breath. “I have to warn you there are some … aspects … of your daughter’s case that will be hard to hear.”
She nodded. “I only need to know what’s pertinent to catching her killer. I’ll let you decide what that is.”
“Fair enough,” Cameron said, and told her what he knew. Connie seemed to take it calmly. She listened but didn’t say much. Halfway through, Cameron paused for a moment, as if considering a thought.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“I’m going to step out on a limb a bit here,” he said. “I didn’t want to say this during the press conference, but not because I was being deceitful. It was because I didn’t want to speculate about things I can’t yet prove.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of what Faith’s crime rate was like before all this.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “There was none.”
He nodded. “Six murders in this short a period of time—that’s enough to raise worries in any small town, but in a place like this, where there’s never been even one—”
“So what are we talking about here?”
“What I’m talking about,” he said, “is that Casey Gold may be a nuisance, but she wasn’t that far off. I just didn’t want her to know it.”
“You mean about there being different killers?”
Cameron shrugged. “Can’t prove it, but there seem to be enough variations in each to make me wonder.”
“And you have no idea what’s going on? No idea at all?”
“No. At least not yet. I’ve searched the national databases looking for something similar, something that might’ve have happened elsewhere—patterns ... anything. No luck. Same thing when I spoke to other agencies.” He drew a deep breath, exhaled heavily. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”
While the Savage Sleeps Page 13
