by Jo Robertson
Smith knew his uncle played his cards close to the chest. He probably wouldn’t have even mentioned having a nephew, let alone revealed the New Haven address. At Paxton-Bell Smith had given a false address to the human resources woman, an overbearing, dog-faced dyke. He’d supplied his real name, a dangerous risk, but how else could he have claimed the house?
Disposal of Mark’s white SUV Ford Explorer had been harder. Smith found the mobile bubble light and shotgun inside Mark’s vehicle. The two-way radio that connected to the dispatcher was turned off. After writing the email, Smith got rid of the car by driving it down from the foothills. In case an APB was out on the car, he switched plates with a similar vehicle and left after dark.
Going south seemed a good idea this time and he headed past Modesto and abandoned the car in Tur-lock, hitchhiked back, and took Amtrak to Sacramento. From there he caught a bus to Placer Hills and then hitched his way back to the New Haven turnoff where he walked the rest of the way home.
Now that he’d dealt with his uncle’s vehicle, Smith could decide the man’s fate. Mark wouldn’t be missed immediately. A widower living alone, he had no one to report his disappearance. Hogtied in the basement like one of the animals he hunted, Uncle Mark was effectively contained.
Smith wasn’t averse to getting rid of a family member because, well, Mark wasn’t really family. He was the enemy. He represented law enforcement and would certainly put the law above any pseudo-allegiance to his nephew.
But the death of a police officer, especially in a dinky town like Placer Hills, was a serious matter, one that’d draw way too much media attention. Smith got a thrill out of knowing the girls’ bodies were discovered and his artistry marveled at, but Uncle Mark’s body must never be found.
That discovery would jeopardize Smith’s nice little setup. If he killed his uncle here, there’d be trace evidence – very difficult to eliminate completely – left behind. Anyone who watched television knew that.
Since they were related, Mark’s fingerprints in the house could be accounted for, but the blood would raise suspicion. If the police had probable cause for a search warrant to investigate the house, they’d have access to everything, including evidence tidily stored in the basement slaughtering room. That was something Smith couldn’t allow.
In his first wave of panic, he’d wanted to flee, abandon the area and move on as he’d done in the past. But this time, there’d be too much evidence left in the house. Eventually someone would find it.
He briefly contemplated dumping Mark’s body in the outbuildings and torching them. Heat destroyed DNA evidence, but fire also brought a lot of attention. During the summer, the buildings would burn to the ground and spread through the dry woods like a tornado, but in winter there was a good chance the Forestry Department could contain it.
Right now, he didn’t think anyone knew about him or his tenuous connection to Mark Marconi. For all his intrusive nature, his uncle was very private about his own business. Attracting attention by starting a fire of suspicious origins would draw too much attention to Smith.
So he decided to stay here and deal with Mark and the evidence he’d left. When the cleanup from that was finished, Smith would take care of what he’d started years ago. Getting the girl-woman and punishing her once and for all.
He’d lost sleep. Made damning mistakes.
All because of her.
He didn’t like dealing with grown women, with their slyness, but he knew some part of the purple-eyed woman was the girl who’d escaped him. He had to redeem himself.
Fueled by pornographic images of the man and woman he’d seen cavorting in the parked truck, he attended to the details of Uncle Mark and his car. He’d take care of this business and they’d be next. The night rushed on, and by the time he’d made his way back to the New Haven house, it was nearly dawn.
He thought of the task waiting for him in the basement bunker. He’d never killed a man before. Would it feel different from his experience with the girls? He didn’t think he’d get the same rush. This was just a matter of doing business. He thought it was hilarious that Mark had become the cost of Smith’s business. His uncle should appreciate the irony of that.
Chuckling softly, he tiptoed down the basement stairs. Comfortable in the near-darkness, he kept the lights low. He pressed his ear against the heavy metal door of the slaughtering room. Silence. Mark hadn’t eaten or drunk in twenty-four hours, so his strength should be waning fast. Smith listened again. Through the door the muffled sound of shuffling reached him. He nodded in satisfaction.
Xavier Mark Marconi, Sheriff of Bigler County, lay in an undignified position in the next room, trussed up like a hog, hands and feet tied behind his back, rag stretched tight around his mouth. The thought of a police officer at Smith’s mercy excited him, in much the same way he felt a thrill of victory when he captured the girls he hunted.
Quite a feat this time, he thought. What souvenir should he keep to remind himself of Uncle Mark?
Smith smiled in anticipation. He’d need all of his strength for tomorrow. Weak as he would be, Mark was a formidable opponent. This was going to be interesting, but he wouldn’t underestimate his uncle.
Smith’s own proud addition to the main room in the bunker was the video system mounted on the wall. He popped a tape into the machine. Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator in the corner, along with a bag of nuts from the food storage shelf, he lounged on the battered sofa he’d dragged down from upstairs.
Watching the movies relaxed and stimulated him at the same time. This particular video was grainy. When he’d taken it, videography was in its infancy, and he’d used an old, clunky video camera. He turned off the sound. Later he’d replay the tape with the sound in full volume
The woman’s face was streaked with dirt and tears. Her yellow hair was stringy and wet and hung in a tangled mess over her rounded shoulders and fleshy breasts. Mucous dripped from her nose and ran in rivulets around her mouth. She sat naked on a dirt floor, ankles and wrists bound.
Smith remembered that hideout as one of his favorite places, a deserted coal mine outside Guthrie, Utah. It was his first stop heading south and later east, putting many miles between him and Preston, Idaho.
The girl’s name was Misty Wilkes.
It was January 12, 1994.
Less than a year after the purple-eyed girl had magically escaped the death scenario he’d so carefully staged in the Idaho cabin.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kate was the only one in the courthouse on Wednesday, late afternoon. She doggedly refused to leave the office until she received the FBI fax the Behavioral Science Unit had promised today. She glanced at her watch again. Damn. Something must’ve prevented the agent from sending it.
Instead of the beeping sound of an incoming fax, the insistent ringing of the phone cut into her concentration. She peered into the empty squad room.
Rising from her chair with a sigh, she started toward the office door. The ringing stopped. Through the open doors of the squad room, she could barely see the back of Sanderson’s bald head gleaming like polished mahogany while he manned the duty desk.
Silence hung in the empty room, heavier than any noise she’d heard on a busy day in the squad room. Kate’s edginess developed into a persistent, dull headache so she made her way toward the coffee maker. Better yet, she’d get a soda, doubly loaded with caffeine and sugar.
As she made her way toward the lobby vending machine, the telephone rang again. This time, Kate could see the flashing light of Slater’s desk phone. He and Bauer were interviewing the Stuckey sister in Galt and might not return to the office today. She picked up the phone to take a message. “Lieutenant Slater’s desk.”
The voice at the other end of the line was soft and shaky, and Kate had to ask the caller to repeat herself. The woman sounded as if she’d been crying. “Is Ben there?”
“He’s out of the office at the moment. May I take a message?”
A pregnant pause foll
owed. Kate could hear the sound of someone noisily sucking in air. “Tell him – tell Ben to call me. It’s urgent.”
“Whom should he call?”
“It’s Julie. Tell him to call Julie.”
“Julie?” Kate prompted. “Will he know the last name?”
“Oh, yes, he’ll know.” Another long break. “Julie,” she repeated. “Tell him to call his wife right away.”
Kate couldn’t stop the shock from registering in her voice. “His wife?”
The voice grew firmer. “Yes, his wife.” Pause. “Who is this anyway?”
Good question. Who was she to Slater? A friend? Girlfriend? Lover? She settled for colleague.
Upon hearing this, the woman on the other end of the line became cold and defensive. “This is Mrs. Slater, Ben’s wife.” There was a long pause. “I don’t recognize your voice. You must be new.”
“I – I’ve been here a few weeks. Uh, I’m sorry, but Ben never mentioned he was – married.”
The woman’s voice became shriller. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
“No – I – ”
“It’s obvious you don’t know him very well. We’ve been married a long time. We have a son, Max.”
Kate’s tongue was lead in her mouth. She didn’t know what to say, and the silence seemed to fuel the woman’s anger.
“If you don’t believe me, look in his center desk drawer. He always keeps Max’s picture there. Look!”
Kate glanced inadvertently at the desk drawer.
“Go ahead, look!” the woman screamed. “Why did you call my husband by his first name? Are you his latest girlfriend? Are you fucking him?”
The woman’s vehemence stunned Kate into speechlessness.
The voice acquired a calculating tone. “Well, it doesn’t matter. He always comes back to me.” The slamming of the phone onto the receiver rang hard in Kate’s ear.
She held the line long after the woman hung up and the dead air gave way to a beeping. She felt the color drain from her face, the lightheadedness and shock. Slater didn’t wear a ring, and she’d never even asked if he were married. She’d just assumed he was single, a free man with no ties or entanglements.
She hadn’t even asked if he had a girlfriend.
Wasn’t sleeping with someone a sign of exclusivity? Had the rules changed and no one told her? Her cheeks gained their color in a flush of hot embarrassment. Not in a million years would she have believed this of Ben Slater. The woman was nuts. It must be a crank call.
She glanced at the desk drawer, felt like an idiot. Okay, she knew she had trust issues. Fears of commitment. Her psychiatric training told her that. But damn it, she’d trusted Slater, confided in him. Had he violated that trust by withholding his most basic personal information? Something she had a right to know about him?
She hesitated, hating the suspicion that drove her. Slowly she eased the unlocked drawer open. Surprisingly organized, nothing there that spoke of a wife and child. The woman was lying. She had to have been. She closed the drawer and started to walk away.
But why? What did she have to gain? And how did she know Slater?
Kate reminded herself how little she knew about him. How seldom he talked of himself or his past. Despising her lack of trust in him, she opened the side drawers of the desk, one drawer at a time. In the bottom one, beneath a stack of folders, she found the picture.
A woman and a child. A fiery-haired beauty with delicate features and high cheekbones. She looked small and helpless as she held the toddler on her lap. No matter what the explanation, Slater should’ve told her about them. She turned the picture over.
Love to Daddy from Mommy and Max.
She stared blankly at the writing. Did he think she wouldn’t find out? She felt the death blow to their budding relationship. Friends with benefits, he’d said, and apparently he meant it.
She stared at the photo a long time before she replaced it and gently closed the drawer. After she composed herself, she left before someone returned and discovered her crying at Slater’s desk.
She pushed aside the pain and conjured up red-hot anger. Anger she could deal with. Hurt would be her undoing. Quickly she penned the note from Slater’s wife and left it on his desk.
Call Julie, 5:45 p.m. Myers.
Grabbing her jacket and stuffing papers inside her briefcase, she turned off her office lights. She wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. She couldn’t face anyone yet, least of all Slater. She didn’t want the raw emotion to show on her face. She wanted to feel less fragile and more in control if and when she confronted him.
A tiny part of her brain urged her to hear his side of the story. But the other part, the betrayed part, wouldn’t listen. How could there be another side to deliberate deception? He had a wife, a woman named Julie, who sounded young and sad, and cried when she called him. And a son, a beautiful little boy with long dark curls and eyes that looked like his father’s.
She could think of no logical explanation except that she’d been sexually involved with another woman’s husband. She’d told Slater her most painful secrets, bared her soul to him, and he’d deceived her.
There couldn’t be any misunderstanding.
All the way home, Kate let her anger build. By the time she pulled into her parking spot, she was exhausted and drained. When she entered her apartment, she took the phone off the hook, dimmed the lights, and ran a hot bath. After lighting candles around the bathroom, she eased herself into the hot, fragrant water.
Dating a married man was unthinkable. She’d been naïve on occasion, been involved with men who’d just wanted sex, or wanted men who hadn’t offered sex, but her bottom line had always been no interference with a couple.
Marriage was a covenant that shouldn’t be broken easily, and she had no intention of being a chip in the mortar of a family unit. She’d never allowed herself to become romantic with someone already involved.
Not that she’d ever been deluded that a relationship was more than sexual pleasure. Any passion for romance had been muted by her fierce desire to capture her sister’s killer. She’d never fallen for the trap of sex disguised as love. Why start with Slater? But in her heart she knew that was why she was so hurt and angry. She’d believed in him. She’d been unable to resist him and hoped he could balance her life, free her from the obsession with her sister’s killer.
Friends with benefits, she thought grimly, and not even that. His duplicity was a heavy boulder crushing her chest. How could he be such a bastard?
#
The watcher saw the woman leave the courthouse in a hurry, looking agitated as she scanned the parking lot before getting into the yellow convertible. He ducked down in the car seat, thinking she’d seen him.
What put her in such a rush?
Now that he knew where she worked and lived, he could keep track of her movements and wait for the right opportunity to make a move. The stupid bitch made it so easy for him. He followed her home, careful to maintain several car lengths’ distance between them.
He parked in a different spot from the last time, locked the van, and strolled toward the parking lot behind her building. On the lookout for other people, he came up on it from the rear alley. Behind the parking lot was a waist-high concrete divider and then the alley, which was lined with a thick patch of bougainvillea that divided the duplex from the trees and houses behind it.
There Smith found the perfect hiding place to watch the rear of the woman’s apartment. He made himself comfortable in a small bower that held an oversized rock and opened his pack of cigarettes. His binoculars dangled from a thick lanyard around his neck.
He’d already discovered that the woman didn’t close her blinds all the way. What she pretended was carelessness was really a calculated lure, a taunting invitation for peeping toms. She wanted someone to look in her window, to watch her as she dressed and undressed.
She was clearly asking for it.
He sat and smoked and kept watch for
a long time. A flickering light glowed from what he guessed was the bathroom because of the high, frosted window pane. He liked the peace and quiet here, so different from the noisy, crowded places he’d lived over the years. Places teeming with the sweaty smells and desperate noises of hordes of people jammed together.
Chicago had been the worst of the worst.
Downtown Chicago was a nightmare of hustlers, hawkers, and riff-raff – exactly the kind of place he despised – but he’d succumbed to the need to satisfy his demanding urges there. The traffic noises and shrill voices rang at an ear-splitting volume. Sometimes he wondered if the voices were just screaming in his head.
Often he had to pop one of the pills he’d confiscated from the old lady he last worked for, mowing lawns and running errands in exchange for room and board. That was a comfortable little town, just outside Des Moines, Iowa, exactly the kind of place he liked. But game had been sparse there, and he’d had to move on.
Too many people began to know his business.
The only thing he’d liked about Chicago was getting lost in its vastness, the bustle of the ports, the bus stations, the dirty underbelly of the city. Knowing his game was weaker, easier to find. Young prostitutes roamed the streets, and runaways slept in flimsy cardboard boxes strewn along the alleyways and railroad tracks.
He preferred the small-town girls, of course, the fresh-faced and innocent-eyed farm girls, but they were difficult to track. In a pinch, he settled for the other kind of girl.
Over the years he’d developed a pattern of living in a community, working at menial jobs, and hiding the bodies well enough that his disappearance and their discovery weren’t linked in the minds of the authorities. And he’d never, ever, left anything of himself behind. In fact, he hadn’t wanted to leave anything behind. He’d wanted to take something.
Something particular and special and exciting.
Sitting among the bushes, lazily inhaling the acrid smoke of his cigarette, Smith glanced at his backpack resting on the ground at his feet. Inside, a small zippered bag was filled with his treasures. His pretties.
