“Well good. Because if he tries to hang himself, they’ll book him first.”
“Sir…”
He could hear the hesitation in her voice. She was itching to tell him something, only the phone was tapped.
“Still nothing on Tess Williams,” she said at last. “They found Kelly Caldwell in the Cerro Colorado Landfill this afternoon. The doctor said she’d been strangled and her lungs were full of chlorinated water. I’ve already notified the family. Another thing, sir. The Camaro was found in the Rio Grande. There was a briefcase in the trunk full of photos, all young girls.”
“Our victims?”
“Yes, sir. And there was one of a redhead said to be Kelly. Looks like she was walking down the street and he took it from behind.”
“So she didn’t know she was being photographed.”
“Right. Thing is, there’s a building in the background, pink stucco with blue trim. Looks like the Arroyo Del Oso clubhouse.”
“I’m there,” said Temeke, taking a screeching right turn on 2nd Street before she could protest.
Twenty minutes later, he was standing in the clubhouse, one hand on the granite reception desk, the other holding his ID. The man behind the counter was well dressed and hungry looking, and the badge on his lapel read Emilio Vargas.
“Looking for a member of yours, a Mr. Ole Eriksen,” Temeke said.
Vargas laced his hands together and cracked every knuckle. His fingers hovered over the computer keyboard before tapping in the name. He shook his head. “Don’t see an Ola Eriksen,” he said, smiling.
“Oliver Eriksen?” Temeke insisted.
Again Vargas shook his head. “Not listed I’m afraid.”
“How about Morgan Eriksen?”
This time Vargas hesitated, eyes running down the computer screen and stopping, so Temeke noted, at the halfway point.
“We did have a Morgan Eriksen, only his membership expired last month. Nice man. Great tipper.” He grinned until Temeke spoke.
“When did you last see him?”
Vargas scratched his chin, eyes flicking to the floor. “He came in for lunch about a week ago. He was with a woman, well dressed. They left about mid-afternoon just when I finished my shift. Walked up the street to a stone house on the corner. The one with the statue of an angel by the front door.”
“How much did he tip you that day?” Temeke had to ask. That’s why Vargas watched Eriksen as he walked up the street. Probably stalked him and all.
Vargas splayed ten fingers on the counter, then gave a sly smile and tapped his nose.
“A hundred bucks?” Temeke said loudly. “See what you mean.”
He laid the photograph down on the countertop and scooted it toward Vargas’ red and sweating face. He heard the man clear his throat, saw him nod.
“Yes, that’s him.”
Temeke mouthed his thanks and pushed through the clubhouse door and out into the parking lot. Unfortunately, the photograph was of Morgan, but like all the others he had shown it to, it was close enough. His eyes darted in all directions behind dark glasses and he decided to take a stroll up the street to the stone house with the angel.
The statue was large all right, set to the left side of the front door. Lips pursed and cheeks round, it looked as if the poor cherub was about to blow out a mouthful of food.
Temeke pulled on the latex and rang the bell. He waited a few seconds, rang it again and counted to ten. Rang it a third time and took a hike around the back. Heaving himself over a wall, he landed in a courtyard of cherry trees and artificial grass.
Sunlight trickled down between the branches and an edgy wind ruffled cattails, some crowned with shards of glass from a broken window. There was a six-foot chain lying on the ground, equipped with bolt pin shackles.
He cocked his pistol and hesitated for a while behind a tall, skinny spruce, surveying the perimeter. The first thing he noticed was the sliding patio door, blinds closed to the winter sun.
He jogged sideways across the lawn toward the house and pressed his ear to the wooden frame. Jiggling the handle up and down a few times to loosen the lock, he was inside the house in less than four seconds. He parted the blinds with the muzzle of his gun.
To the right was the kitchen and to the left was the sitting room with a high ceiling, running to the front of the house. He froze in the darkness, smelling the tart fragrance of a lighted air freshener. It was the only light there was.
A strong smell of gasoline seeped in from a lit garage and Temeke stared into an empty space. There was no sign of a car, only the imprint of tire treads on a light gray floor. Three cans of gasoline stood in the middle of the floor and he saw a set of oily marks where there had been at least seven more.
He inched back into the kitchen and examined the sink. Empty. No dirty plates. There were three take-out boxes in the fridge, a bottle of white wine and a gallon jug of milk. The owner clearly dined out. The knife block was full and there was another of those fat Santa incense burners on the countertop.
In one of the kitchen drawers was a neat stack of closing papers from Desert Sun Properties, all signed by Ole Eriksen.
“Bingo,” Temeke muttered, flicking through the first few pages.
Tucked behind the first stack was a buff file labeled Freedom CSP. There were photographs of dark girls, laughing girls, dead girls, and a log cabin in a wood. He slipped the picture of the cabin in his jacket pocket and crept around the corner in the direction of the hall.
His confidence seemed to rise with every step. He knew he was alone, felt no other presence. The stairs were partially lit by a picture window, looking out on the golf course and the Sandia Mountains. The blinds were turned downward, letting in only a thin sliver of light.
The master bedroom door was equipped with enough hardware to keep a person prisoner and the back of it appeared to be slightly scuffed where metal scraped against paint. There was a small stain on the carpet, possibly blood, and Temeke visualized a small girl hunched on the floor after banging against the door in the hopes of freeing herself.
The room was smaller than he expected, bedspread drawn back, sheets starched white except for a small smear of blood on the right side of the bed. There were scuffs on the bedhead as if something had been tied there.
He looked out of the window. Trees and streaks of blue sky broke between the branches, and he could see the roofs of other houses. When he thought hard enough a visual came to mind. This was the only view both Patti and Becky had.
The bathroom was devoid of toiletries and the facecloth in the shower was dry. The thermostat had been set at 68 degrees and if Ole showered each day, he had to have been gone more than two days.
Temeke found the rest of the house to be untouched and rushed down the stairs to the front door. He called in the location and told Hackett he was coming back to the station.
It was a lie. He was going north on I-25. CSP… the only thing he could think of was Cimarron State Park. It was littered with camping sites and a few dilapidated cabins. He took a deep breath in the driveway, smelling pine needles and fresh exhaust from a passing car.
He called Malin and got her on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“Arroyo Del Oso,” she said.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“No, sir. I figured you’d be at the clubhouse.”
He caught the amusement in her voice and just as he made headway down the street, he saw her car in the parking lot.
“Call Captain Fowler, will you?” he shouted, before snapping his phone shut. “Tell him to pick up my wife’s car.”
“He’s in a meeting with Hackett, sir. So is Jarvis. They’re waiting for you.”
“I’ve got better things to do than drink tea and have small talk with Hackett.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
Temeke didn’t wait to answer. He took off his jacket and harness, replacing both with a bulletproof vest and a duty belt, and he told Malin to do the same. Checking
his gun, he sniffed the air.
“We’re going to take a hike, love. And we’re going to see exactly what Captain Fowler missed.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Ole pulled the knife from a tree. Actually missed. It was a first for him.
He watched her through tired eyes, running with a speed that matched his own. She wasn’t yielding. Not yet. And if she knew he was there, she was doing a grand job of hiding it.
And then, an exotic gem of a moment. She paused and looked around at the drab landscape, lost in her own world. She didn’t understand she was in his territory, that he could so easily kill her just because she was there.
Such curiosity. Such bravery.
He wanted to capture her, own her. He wanted to wreathe her with the final visions of earth and stars. Take his knife and finish it. All that hovered around this girl was the last struggle of life. Then her soul would be just ashes. And he would feel alive.
Even though he no longer heard Odin’s immense voice, he still felt that aching chill reminding him of what he must do.
So why did he hesitate?
Because her body wasn’t limp like the others, wasn’t drugged and lifeless so that he could whisper the Norse songs as she fell asleep. This one was running through a snarl of branches toward the river.
All of a sudden he was Glidehoof, racing in the shimmering snow. Faster now, thundering between the trees, seeing a burst of flesh here and there, dark flesh that would very soon meld with the shadows. If he wasn’t careful, he would lose her in this riparian woodland.
Whatever she saw on her journey, whatever she felt, she had no idea how precious this moment was. How it would never happen in quite the same way.
Almost there, almost smelling the sweat on her dark, wet skin. Only a few more seconds and she would be his.
He lost sight of her again, lost track and scent of her. Odd, he had a trace on her a moment ago, caught a distinct sense she was behind that tree, the one with a cloud colored trunk.
When he reached forward, knife poised at her shoulder, she suddenly darted to one side, pushing through the underbrush like a skittish deer. He teetered on the tips of his feet, hand reaching out for that sycamore. In all his years as a hunter, he had never seen quarry move so fast.
A dark chill ran through him as he stood there panting. She was heading for the river, heading for the ice.
For a while he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, banishing all thoughts of escape from his mind. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see her out there. What mattered more was that he could sense her, searching, hungry for a way out.
He slipped the knife in his belt and started running again, tearing through a far-reaching expanse of grass to the restless river where winter had locked the banks in ice. The ancient fir trees towered over him, dark and sinister against a bleak sky, and the water glinted like an egret’s wing.
There she was, thirty feet away, foot tapping away at a thin layer of ice.
“Don’t do it,” Ole shouted, holding up both hands.
The water was shallow there, only a trickle and he saw her lift her head, eyeing him with those same mystical eyes.
He threw off the mood, becoming the dispassionate killer once more, edging toward her with a measured step. “Where is your God now, Tessie? Where is he?”
“Right here,” she said, finger pointing toward her foot as if someone actually stood there.
Ole narrowed his eyes to the meandering streams, cutting around sandbanks and surging onwards with the current. He couldn’t see anyone.
“Come on, Tessie. You can’t love a phantom. And I know you’re scared. He can’t help you with that.”
There was a tremor in her lips if he wasn’t mistaken, a spasm in her arms. She backed up a few steps, wincing at the icy water around her ankles.
Her head turned toward the river, thinking perhaps how long she had, how she could rush to the other side and be buffeted to death by the cliffs. But the mud would suck her down and those heavy shoes she wore wouldn’t help her one bit.
Only ten feet from her now, he reached out, fingers stretched. “Give me your hand,” he whispered, tilting his head to one side.
That was the look women couldn’t resist. Before they were gouged, broken and shattered, that is.
“You must be a lonely man,” she said, panting slightly. “Are you lonely?”
Ole felt a shrinking in his breast, reminding him of the grotesque thing he was, a fading fragment of a man. “Lonely?” he said, feeling a tightening at his temples.
“Afraid then.”
Now that was downright stupid. How could he be afraid? He was the one that chased after frightened and hunted things because he had been frightened and hunted himself. It didn’t mean he was afraid. Not until she mentioned it.
“I won’t be afraid,” she said, teeth chattering. “Perfect love drives out fear.”
He paused for a moment, wondering how she managed to dredge up these powerful words. Was she in love with him? Was that what she said?
His legs felt suddenly crippled and bent, so cold they would snap if he tried to move them. What was wrong with him? He had once been adept at netting girls to add to Odin’s collection. He had once been impervious to the cold. This one was number nine.
The very last one. The one he should have snatched in the first place if it hadn’t been for her little sister swapping places in the tent. Morgan hadn’t seen that coming.
His knife could slice a grapefruit in half, or a bed sheet blowing on a clothesline. It was sharp enough to slice a branch off a sapling because he polished that blade now and then. He wanted to slide it out of his waistband, but his fingers were so cold they were powerless.
“Who is your god?” she asked.
Death, he wanted to say but his lips were trembling now. The more he thought about it, the more he realized what the change was. Odin wasn’t there anymore. Like a migrating bird he had answered the call of the north, returning only with the march of the seasons.
Ole began to feel the gut-aching loneliness the girl talked about. Abandonment.
Hadn’t his father abandoned him to a foster home? Hadn’t Morgan abandoned him. Even his mother. He wasn’t going to be at the mercy of others, wasn’t going to be at the mercy of this skinny dark girl in a tartan skirt.
Even though his shirt was soaked in sweat he was cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he was cold and he wondered why his bodiless spirit had slumbered all these years. Like it was dead.
He was afraid now, just as he had been after Morgan died, that poor fragile soul who floated around in the darkness because he never knew God.
Don’t children go to heaven? He thought they did and suddenly he felt shunned, a thing of ridicule – not infamous, newsworthy. An evil thing that hunkered in an alley wearing a beggar’s coat. He weighed it all calmly, never quite sure how his black heart ticked. His father was clothed in a mahogany casket. That’s how black Ole’s heart must have been.
He gripped that knife and swung in from the right, blade slicing through air and water. He was suddenly head down in the river as if embracing an icy lover. He had miscalculated, heard the tinkle of childish laughter, couldn’t believe his ears. There she was edging toward the trees, boots crunching in the snow.
A gray northeast wind blew over the land, sighing over the rushing river. He turned his eyes upward just in time to see three geese dropping from the sky, a curious natural rhythm in their pulsing wings. It seemed to mimic the beat of his heart as they raced south, disappearing as mysteriously as they had arrived.
He heard the rustling of the grass as he lifted himself from the icy water, like a cripple rising from the Jordan River. Only he wasn’t changed. Not like that.
He was still Ole, misshapen, grotesque Ole. That’s why the girl had taken flight from something she wasn’t yet able to understand.
He found the knife, felt the cold blade between his fingers, saw the sigh of warm air from his mouth. He staggered through
a squelch of mud, heart pounding almost as loud as a base drum. He was excited by what he was about to do, knowing he could never undo it.
THIRTY-FIVE
Malin gripped that steering wheel, sighed and stepped on the gas. She had two choices. Either tell Temeke the car was fitted with a taping device or get her badge taken away. If she didn’t bring it up, he’d know. Bound to suspect the procedure, bound to appreciate her loyalty.
They’d been talking about him again – Sarge, Fowler, Hackett, Jarvis. Saying he was a womanizer, a drug dealer. Saying he was having sex with underage girls. Saying he was probably the 9th Hour Killer all along.
Malin began to snigger. She couldn’t help it. Temeke wasn’t the type to go looking for sex on the Internet. He had a sensual well-bred look about him, somehow wild as if he had come straight off the African plains. Black sweatshirt imprinted with the words If I don’t like you, I’ll write about you, and a black baseball hat that seemed to give him an air of authority. They felt threatened. That’s what it was.
His eyes briefly caught hers, eyebrow raised as a slow smile crept across his face. She raised her forefinger and made a wide circle. He would know what it meant.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, gazing with focus.
He was probably looking around for anything new in the car, an extra telephone jack, another dial on the dashboard. It had been well over two hours since they left the hospital in Rio Rancho and he’d hardly spoken at all. Seeing Luis wrapped in tubes was bad enough. Seeing Becky and that little bruised body was somehow worse.
He was animated at a large sign to Taos, shifted around in his seat and then checked his phone. He was a shrewd man, been close to death so many times, almost expecting it, and nothing made him nervous. He was used to the dirty tricks and sleaze of law enforcement, and he operated by his own rules.
The GPS told her to bear right on NM68 at Riverside Drive and there were signs to US64 and Eagle Nest. She had no idea where the Shelby Campground Park Office was, only Temeke had called ahead before they left and asked for a ranger to wait at the gate. She reckoned on forty more minutes. Better step on it the rest of the way.
The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) Page 21
