by Chris Mooney
And why shouldn’t I? I’m still safely hidden inside the shadows, and I still have the power to choose. I can take Angela Blake, Tricia Lamont, even the McCormick bitch, whenever I want.
Sarah gave me Angela’s picture because she knows I like a fighter. In that regard, Darby McCormick would be the ultimate challenge. She wouldn’t submit herself willingly to the rope, the way some of the others did. She wouldn’t scream or beg or cry. She’d lash out. I did a Google search on her last night, surprised by the number of articles that came up. I only had to read a handful to know that she gets off on killing. Given the chance, she’d blow my head off or slit my throat and then sleep like a baby. The woman has no conscience.
Women are fragile, delicate things; they break easily. And, like all things that break, they don’t look or function the same way after they’re put back together. You always see the cracks. The weak and vulnerable spots.
And hers is fear. The photos and last night’s phone call have put her into full red-alert mode. She’ll be constantly looking over her shoulder and watching her rear-view mirror, terrified the Red Hill Ripper is coming for her. Every time the phone rings and every time she gets undressed her anxiety will go into overdrive. I have to stoke her fear, keep her simmering in it, so that she can’t sleep. She’ll become run down and, eventually, exhausted. She’ll be jumpy and irritable and prone to mistakes and she won’t see me coming.
The real challenge will be what to do with her. Training a woman to obey is really no different than training a dog. Some dogs take to their lessons easily. A few swift corrections and they’re in line. The more stubborn ones, you have to systematically break their spirit. Sometimes you have to drive your point home with a hand or fist. You have to be patient and find the way to deliver the message so it lives in their bones.
I pull into the driveway, as excited as a child on Christmas morning, and park. Sarah’s car isn’t here; today is Thursday, her errand day. I hit the button on the garage-door remote clipped to my visor and leave the truck running. I only need a few minutes in the basement.
I open the steamer trunk, a blast of dust hitting my nose as my eyes pore over a dozen fragmentation grenades and a sawn-off Mossberg shotgun; a bulletproof vest designed to withstand armour-piercing rounds; night-vision binoculars and goggles. I find what I’m looking for in the corner: a box holding a vial of Etorphine and a half-dozen syringes, held together with an elastic band. A small injection of that opioid and a normal, healthy adult will black out in less than a minute.
I tuck the box and syringes into my pocket, wanting to have them close by for when the time comes. I can hear the radio playing upstairs. Sarah puts it on every time she leaves the house, believing that the news and an assortment of talk-radio hosts will convince a potential burglar that someone is home.
A reporter is talking about the Downes family, the latest victims of the Red Hill Ripper. The piece ends with a mention of the FBI sending Terry Hoder to Red Hill to hunt the killer.
Has Sarah heard this? Does she know? At some point I’m going to have to tell her.
I start up the stairs but my thoughts turn back to the other items inside the trunk.
What if the police come for me when I’m not at home? The FBI? I move back to the trunk and stand over it for several minutes.
I decide against taking the Mossberg. While the shotgun has massive stopping power, it’s useless against long-distance targets. If I’m bunkered down somewhere and locked in a firefight, I’ll need the Springfield. I sling the rifle strap over my shoulder and stuff a box of ammo into an empty pocket.
At the last moment I decide to take three grenades with me. If I’m forced to leave this world, why not go out in a blaze of glory?
27
Darby entered the hotel lobby and went straight to the reception desk in search of Laurie, who had checked her in last night. Laurie wasn’t there; nor was she inside the small office behind the counter.
Darby would deal with that later. First, she needed to go to her room.
She had drawn the blackout curtains after last night’s phone call and left them that way when she locked up this morning. Now she found them still drawn, the room caged in a partial darkness.
Darby hit the wall’s light switch and the matching lamps on the nightstands came to life. She left the door open behind her and the curtains as they were. She looked around the room for the TV remote, found it on the bureau and turned on the TV.
A commercial for a new medication used to treat erectile dysfunction started to play on the screen. She increased the volume slightly, then tossed the remote on her bed and slipped out of her boots. She went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. When she stepped back into the room, she left the bathroom door open behind her and moved to the nightstand with the phone.
The cordless handset didn’t have any visible screws, but it did have a back cover. She fitted her thumb into the groove and, careful not to make any noise, gently wiggled it forward until the cover came off.
The rectangular-shaped area behind the cover housed a pair of rechargeable batteries; it was connected to the rest of the handset by a pair of Phillips-head screws. Using a fingernail, she carefully removed the batteries, not wanting to make a sound, and found two more screws underneath. She studied them underneath the nightstand lamp’s bright light for a moment. Then from her back pocket she removed the zippered pouch she had taken from her kit.
Tucked inside the pouch’s black mesh was a small adjustable screwdriver with a dozen different point heads. Fortunately it had the small head size she needed.
Darby sat on the edge of the bed and went to work removing the screws with the methodical care of a bomb technician tasked with defusing an improvised explosive device. If her suspicions were correct about what was inside the handset she needed to be as quiet as possible.
It took her two minutes to remove the screws and another five to dismantle the rest of the handset. She had to switch from the Phillips-head to a flathead in order to carefully prise apart the plastic shell.
She found what she was looking for in the nest of wires near the earpiece.
Darby put everything on the bed and in her stocking feet moved back into the hall of dim light and stone flooring. Hoder stood at the opposite end, waiting. She had told him to remain there to make sure no one came into the hall.
He leaned forward, both hands gripping his cane, and looked at her questioningly. She nodded and surprise lit up his face. He raised his eyebrows until they almost met his hairline.
‘Definitely an audio bug,’ Darby said after she reached him. She had explained her theory about a listening device having been installed inside her phone as they were entering the hotel. ‘Looks like an older model, battery operated, but I’m sure.’
‘You think he heard you?’ Hoder kept his voice low, as if the bug were hovering inches away from them.
‘I turned on the TV and shower so I doubt he heard me taking the phone apart, and I took my boots off so he didn’t hear me walking out of the room. I don’t have the proper equipment to know if he is, in fact, listening right now. I doubt Red Hill does – we can ask – but if they don’t I’m sure Coop can scrounge up what we need from the Denver office.’
‘How did you know?’ Hoder asked.
‘The bug in my phone? Because he called almost immediately after I hung up with Coop.’
‘That it?’
Darby nodded. Hoder visibly stiffened, as if she had betrayed him somehow. As if she had come across information and refused to share it with him.
‘It was a hunch,’ she said. ‘A lucky guess.’
Hoder looked like he had come to some sort of private conclusion about her. Or maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe Hoder was privately admonishing or punishing himself for not having figured it all out earlier.
His smile was forced, his voice flat when he said, ‘What about the range of this thing?’
‘No idea. I’ll know more once I find out the se
rial number – provided I can find one.’ Darby sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘We have a bigger problem.’
‘What?’
‘The bug was placed directly behind the handset’s earpiece, so it could pick up conversations, any noise, in fact, inside my room. That means he heard me talking to Williams and Coop last night. It also means he heard me discussing the crime scene photos with Coop and Williams, how I noticed an electronic device with a camera positioned on each of the families.’
‘It’s not like that was going to do us any good. Coop said tracing the signal is a dead end.’
‘I’m more worried about our man’s state of mind. If he knows we’ve found out how he recorded the families, watched the police at the crime scenes, it’s going to ramp up his anxiety and –’
‘He may lash out,’ Hoder said, finishing her thought.
‘I’ll call Coop, have him bring some equipment that will allow us to find the bugs without having to take each phone apart. Until we know for sure, I wouldn’t use the hotel phone to make any calls – or talk about the case inside your room.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I’ll also see if the Denver office has the right equipment to allow us to lock into a bug’s frequency and trace it – which is why I left it in the handset. I don’t want him to know we’ve found it. Let me go shut down everything in the room and then we’ll go to see if that woman who worked the reception desk last night is here.’
‘She is,’ Hoder said. ‘She came into the hall while you were in your room. Her full name’s Laurie Richards. She’s waiting for us out front.’
‘Take her outside. I’ll meet you there in a couple of minutes.’
‘Outside?’
‘If the Red Hill Ripper managed to get his way into my room and bug my phone, who’s to say he didn’t place a listening device near the reception desk or somewhere else?’
28
Darby stepped outside the hotel’s front door and found Laurie Richards standing a few feet away from the entrance, in a patch of sunlight. The woman’s dark blue puffer jacket was zipped all the way to her throat. It was frayed along the cuffs and there was a dime-sized hole in the elbow that exposed the downy feathers to the wind.
Hoder was making polite chitchat about the approaching storm while the woman looked around the street, a caged anxiety visible in her face and posture. She refused to look at him, her attention fixed on something further down the street. A black Ford van with tinted windows, its sagging rear bumper held up by rope, was parked in front of the Wagon Wheel Saloon.
Had Hoder said something to scare her, or was the woman intimidated simply by the idea of talking to a federal agent? Was she afraid of men?
Hoder, a divining rod of buried human emotions, had tuned into the woman’s mood. So Darby wasn’t surprised when he turned to her and said, ‘Ms Richards said there’s a diner a few blocks from here. I need to eat something before my hypoglycaemia goes into overdrive. Would you like me to bring you back some coffee?’
‘Black, please,’ Darby replied.
‘Ms Richards?’
‘No, thank you.’
Darby handed him the car keys. Richards watched Hoder as he shuffled on his cane towards the corner. The woman looked exhausted, a wired energy flitting behind her eyes.
‘We met briefly last night. My name is Darby McCormick. I’m assisting Agent Hoder with the Red Hill Ripper investigation.’
‘Yes, I know. He told me.’ She shifted on her feet and then seemed to stand absolutely still, as though the solid pavement had turned to a thin sheet of ice. ‘Am I in some sort of trouble?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘He wouldn’t let me go to your room to change the sheets. He told me to go wait at the front desk and not to go anywhere. Did I do something wrong? And why are we standing outside?’
‘I’ve become addicted to this fresh country air.’ Darby smiled pleasantly. ‘How many people work here?’
‘Just me.’
Darby blinked in surprise. ‘You run the entire hotel by yourself?’
‘It’s not as daunting as it sounds. We generally don’t have guests. Nobody comes to stay in Red Hill any more, not since the ski slopes in Ridgewater closed, oh, must be six years ago now. Recession hit Ridgewater real bad. People used to stay here ’cause it was cheaper.’
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Here, at the hotel. At least until it’s sold.’
Darby recalled the cot she’d seen in the back office.
‘Charlie prefers to have me here around the clock, anyway,’ Richards said.
‘Charlie?’
‘Charlie Baker. He owns the hotel, and he hired me to keep an eye on everything – make sure the pipes don’t freeze and burst, keep the place nice and clean for when potential buyers come around, stuff like that. They don’t always telephone ahead, you know.’
‘Buyers?’
Richards nodded, her attention riveted on the notebook Darby had removed from her back pocket. ‘Most of ’em just drop by unannounced. When they do, I’ve got to make sure everything’s spic ’n’ span.’
‘You said “they”. Do buyers always come in groups?’
‘Usually.’
‘When was the last time a buyer stopped by the hotel?’
‘December. I can’t recall the date off the top of my head, but it was early in the month. I’d have to consult the book.’ She smiled brightly. Proudly. ‘I keep very detailed notes for Mr Baker.’
‘Does he work at the hotel too? Come in and do paperwork, stuff like that?’
‘No, he lives in Arizona. With his son.’
‘The buyer in December,’ Darby began.
‘Buyers. Three men and an older woman, from Weinstein and Glick, some building company based somewhere on the East Coast. New York, I think.’
‘Has a single buyer come by recently to look at the hotel?’
‘No. Never.’
‘You sure? Maybe someone who was taking a look around the outside?’
‘I’m positive. They always come in groups.’
Scratch that theory, Darby thought. ‘Ms Richards, can you tell me who booked my hotel room?’
The woman seemed puzzled, nervous, as though she’d been asked a trick question designed to lead her into a trap. ‘Agent Hoder,’ she said tenuously.
‘He called and told you to book me a room?’
‘No, he told me the day he checked in.’
‘That would be this past Wednesday, the fifteenth.’
‘That’s right. He came into the hotel around noon or so with another agent, a tall man with blond hair and differently coloured eyes.’
‘Cooper.’
‘He didn’t introduce himself, and Agent Hoder didn’t tell me his name. But he had a badge and everything. Agent Hoder checked in and told me he needed another room and gave me your name.’
‘When did the FBI book the other rooms?’
‘Right after the first of the year, I think. I’ll have to check the ledger.’
‘You don’t use a computer?’
‘Not any more. Mr Baker used one at one point, but when it broke he didn’t want to replace it – there wasn’t a need since the hotel wasn’t busy. I’ve been working here almost a year, and all I’ve ever used is the ledger. We still have the credit card machine, though. You need that since everyone pays with plastic.’
‘Where do you keep the ledger?’
‘Next to the phone.’
‘Is it always next to the phone?’
‘There or behind the desk.’ The woman’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Could you bring it to me, please?’
29
Laurie Richards clearly wanted to ask why she had to bring the ledger outside instead of taking Darby back into the hotel to read it.
She didn’t, though. She opened the big, heavy glass door, and Darby watched as the woman moved to the corner of the front desk and picked up something next to the pho
ne. Richards returned carrying a book bound in green imitation leather. A red ribbon acted as a bookmark.
‘The entry’s right here,’ Richards said, and pointed to the kind of impeccable cursive handwriting instilled by Catholic school nuns. ‘Mr Stephen Drake from the FBI’s travel office in Washington called me on Friday, the third. That’s his phone number right there, next to his name. He said four agents would be staying with us for a week starting on Wednesday, the fifteenth.’
Darby nodded, reading along. Richards had taken meticulous notes.
‘Mr Drake specifically asked for two rooms, by the way,’ Richards said. ‘I told him we had plenty of availability but he told me the FBI have their agents bunk up.’
Darby nodded, familiar with the FBI’s budget-saving protocol. ‘This notation right here,’ she said, and pointed to a line that read ‘+1R. 8.’
‘That’s shorthand for plus one extra room. I put you in Room 8,’ Richards said. ‘I wrote that down after Agent Hoder told me you’d be staying here. I called Mr Drake to tell him, you know, just in case.’
‘And you made this notation on Wednesday morning, when Agent Hoder checked in.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure? You didn’t add it in later?’
‘No. I make the notes right then and there. I don’t wait because you can’t always trust your brain to remember – at least mine, anyway.’
Darby had flown in yesterday. Thursday. She had arrived at the Downes home at roughly 11 a.m. and checked into her room last night at little after 9 p.m. Sometime during those ten hours the Red Hill Ripper had found out her room number and bugged her phone.
Darby closed the ledger and handed it back to her.
‘Did you see anyone inside the hotel yesterday who didn’t belong here? Someone who wasn’t a guest?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
Richards nodded vigorously.
‘Were you working the front desk the entire time? Did you go anywhere?’
‘Well, I can’t be in two places at once,’ Richards said. ‘I’ve got to do cleaning and maintenance and other stuff. When Agent Hoder told me he needed an extra room, I had to go and get it ready.’
