Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

“Yeah. I’ll call down to Tyler.”

  I left in a big hurry, feeling like a heel because I was so unabashedly eager to get home and meet Bud. Tyler had the boat gassed and ready, and within minutes I was away from Cedar Bend and on my way. The lake was choppy, the sky almost black and low with storm clouds roiling over the hills around the lake. It felt good to be out on the water, and I bounced over the waves at full throttle.

  The wind whipped through my hair, and I prayed that Harve had been able to shut the media out of our private road. Everybody thought I was with Nick Black now, and the paparazzi would stick to him like glue. Now it was easy for me to understand why he’d bought a resort down here, away from major news outlets. But Bud should be waiting for me at my house, and he’d clear out any pushy reporters hanging around long before I even got there.

  As I rounded a jut of land and headed into my cove, I saw Bud’s white Bronco parked at my dock. He was leaning against the front fender, totally immaculate as always, both hands stuffed in his pants pockets. No reporters in sight. I smiled, pleased to see him. Things could get back to normal now. Black’s face filled my mind, and I recalled the way he touched me, the way my body responded to him, his determination to make me face my past. He’d helped me already, making me get it out and talk about it. Stop it, Claire. Put him out of your thoughts and focus on the case.

  Bud strode down the planks to meet me with his usual loose-limbed saunter and easily caught the lines I tossed to him. He was wearing his sheriff’s department rain slicker, and I wished I had mine. I hadn’t been able to find it for at least a month. Guess I was going to get wet.

  “Another of Black’s baubles, I presume?” he said, looking the boat over. “Wow. Think he’ll give me one, too, if I bat my long eyelashes and say ‘pretty please’?”

  He was grinning, so I let it pass. “It’s borrowed. Got my stuff?”

  Bud held up a blue plastic grocery bag as I stepped onto the dock. “You’re back in business, Detective.”

  “Thanks.” It felt good to pull out my badge and clip it to my belt. It felt even better to have the weight of the Glock under my palm. I shrugged into my leather shoulder holster and slid the gun into place and felt whole again. “Okay, what’s this all about? Charlie wouldn’t put me back on this soon if something hadn’t gone down.”

  “They found another body in Ha Ha Tonka State Park. He wants us both at the scene, pronto.”

  “Same M.O.?”

  “Yeah. Decapitation, silver duct tape, the little, half-round flesh cuts, the whole works. Charlie and the crime team are already there. The whole park’s cordoned off.”

  “Let’s take the boat. It’s faster.”

  Ha Ha Tonka State Park was a big draw with the tourists, especially hikers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was heaven on earth for geologists who got off on sinkholes and craggy caves and walking across natural bridges and peering off soaring bluffs. It had miles of trails with spectacular scenery and the ruins of a turn-of-the-century stone castle hanging at the edge of a cliff overlooking both the Niangua River and Lake of the Ozarks. The castle drew lovers like a king-sized bed in Cancun.

  Devastated by fire decades ago, the shell of the old castle became visible in the distance, and when Bud and I got closer, we could see the great granite bluffs rising out of the water and the castle’s white stone water tower, which was still intact. I slowed the boat as we neared the lower parking lot at the entrance to the park. Ha Ha Tonka was Osage Indian for “Laughing Waters,” but I had a feeling nobody was laughing at the moment.

  I killed the motor and let the wash slide us up onto the sand. Connie O’Hara saw us and started walking down the rocky beach in our direction as we scrambled out of the boat. There were reporters gathering behind the yellow crime tape blocking off the entrance road, with three police officers keeping them at bay.

  “How you been, O’Hara?” I said when she reached us. She didn’t look so good, tired, as if she hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Don’t much like what’s goin’ on around here.” O’Hara glanced at the press. I could hear the distant drone of their voices. Hey, everybody, another dead woman! Happy days are here again! Roll those cameras; dance those jigs! O’Hara searched my face. “Thought that was a pretty bad scene that happened to you out in California.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ve got it together now. Where’d he leave the victim?”

  “In the old water tower. They’ve been waiting for you before they bag her.”

  Bud had already started up the footpath that led to the castle. I caught up with him, and when we reached the upper parking lot, we took a right and the castle ruins loomed up in front of us. Looked like the last scenes of Rebecca, after Mrs. Danvers set fire to Manderley and burned herself up in it. A hulking shell of white granite and limestone, one wall still rose three floors, with the chimneys and window arches intact. I was surprised Black hadn’t bought the place and restored it. Stop it. Don’t think about him.

  Officers lined the trail that led from the castle ruins to the crime scene. The water tower lay farther up the cliff, on a path that wound very close to a bluff that gave new meaning to straight down. We walked quickly along the weathered board walkways, which had been constructed with side railings for the safety of park visitors. I looked over the precipice and remembered that some guy had thrown his wife over the side into the deep blue-green spring bubbling below, but that was before my time. Unfortunately for the hubby, she got caught on scrub brush clinging to the side of the rocks instead of sinking forever into the water and out of his life. Foiled by nature. Wish this case was that easy.

  Charlie Ramsay stood at the base of the fifty-foot water tower. An iron gate usually closed off the interior steps to discourage tourists and hikers from climbing to the top of the tower, but it was open today, the black metal chain and lock lying on the ground. It was a square stone structure, reminiscent of Tuscany bell towers or the English keeps of King Arthur’s time. I half expected to see Merlin standing in one of the three windows high atop, a black robe with lots of crescent moons and stars swirling around him, his hands outstretched to work his wondrous magic. Or was that the guy in Harry Potter?

  “Well. About time, Claire. Annie. Which is it gonna be?” People were definitely having problems knowing what to call me.

  “Claire.”

  “You doin’ okay?” Charlie added for my ears only. His way of apologizing for taking my badge. I nodded.

  A couple of Missouri State Highway patrolmen were standing around inside. Dueling jurisdictions and clashing sabers. I recognized O’Hara’s husband and gave him the obligatory solemn nod. He was a big, broad-shouldered man of German and Irish extraction, who looked like he should be on top of the Matterhorn wearing a black-and-red argyle sweater and blowing on a long pipe about cough drops.

  I concentrated on Charlie. “Is it Brandenberg’s head?”

  He made a little shrug, took a nervous draw on the pipe he was holding. “Young woman. Blond. Sorry, you’ll have to ID her.”

  I said, “Okay, but I haven’t seen her in years.” I saw Shag inside, edging around the body with his camera. He moved to his right, and I could see the body propped against the back wall, long blond hair flowing down over the face and nude torso. This time the duct tape was crusted black with blood. I could see some of the little half-moon wounds cut into her breasts and stomach. He’d struck again, all right, and right under our noses.

  “Have they moved her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bud and I slipped on gloves and protective booties and watched where we stepped. There was a lot of blood pooled around inside. The enclosure was about twenty feet by twenty feet, and a flight of steps led up into the tower. Nothing was in the room except the victim. She sat on the dirt floor, looking straight at us. It looked like the perp had combed her hair down over her face. I recognized the duct tape and the tilted angle of the head.

  “He must’ve taken a vacation in sunny Southern California, killed Brandenberg,
then brought her head back here for this one.” Bud scratched his chin. “He targeted an old friend of yours for a reason. Do you think he’s after you because you’re investigating?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at Charlie. “Has Gil Serna turned up?”

  He nodded. “He finally showed up at a private rehab clinic in Acapulco, Mexico. So he’s pretty much off the hook. This victim’s probably from around here, looks in her thirties, athletic. Should have been able to put up a fight.”

  I moved closer and squatted beside the body. Just like in the bayou, bluebottle flies had found the corpse and were everywhere, their buzz loud in the stone room. The heat was oppressive inside, and the smell of congealing blood was enough to rock me back on my heels. It was like being buried alive with the victim. “It’s the same perpetrator, no doubt about it.”

  Shag nodded. “The tape’s wrapped the same. I think it’s the same roll. We finally got the L.A. evidence, and it matches up, too. This perp gets around. Likes blondes with long hair, like me.” He grinned. Halfheartedly, though, no Ha-Ha in the Tonka today.

  “Are you ready to pull back the hair?” Charlie said to Shag.

  “Yeah.”

  Bud lifted it up and held it, and my breath left me. I looked away. The face was damaged some and smeared with blood, but I recognized her. “Yeah, it’s Freida.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, she had that scar on her chin. She gashed it when we ran the obstacle course.”

  I was glad when an excited shout came from somewhere up the trail. I stood up, and backed away from Freida’s staring eyes, and went outside, eager to get out of there. I sucked in fresh air. The wind was brisk now with the impending storm and heavy with the smell of rain and the sound of fluttering leaves.

  “We found the victim’s clothes,” said O’Hara’s husband. I think his name was George.

  “Maybe he finally slipped up,” I said, as a young deputy headed toward us with a brown paper evidence bag. “An ID on the body might tie him to the victim.”

  Bud took the bag and pulled out a red backpack, then unzipped it and took out a black T-shirt. I looked down at the T-shirt, then grabbed it out of his hands. My mind reeled in horror. I staggered back, my eyes on the fluorescent orange cutoff shorts that Bud pulled out next. Bile rose and burned the back of my throat, hot and caustic.

  “What?” Charlie asked me. All the men looked at me, and when Bud took a step in my direction, I turned away and leaned over, bracing my hands on my thighs. I felt like I was going to throw up. “These are Dottie’s clothes. Oh, my God, this is what she had on the last time I saw her.”

  “No, it can’t be,” Bud said, frowning down at the shorts in his hands.

  I looked at the University of Missouri Tiger paw print on the shirt, brought it to my nose, and smelled Clinique, Dottie’s perfume. I looked toward the water tower, visualized again the woman left in the dirt, the lean athletic body, muscled hard from kayaking and running and lifting Harve. “Oh, my God, it is her.” Then I thought of Harve, alone at home. This would kill him. It was killing me. I put my palms over my face and took deep breaths until Charlie came up close to me. His voice was gruff. “You’re absolutely sure? There are lots of shirts like this around here.”

  A glimmer of hope. Please God, don’t let it be her. Bud was examining the shorts. “No ID.”

  “He’s definitely going after your friends,” Bud said, his eyes holding mine. “That means it’s probably someone you know.”

  “And Harve’s home alone.” I jerked my cell phone out and punched in the number with shaking fingers. Nobody answered. “I’ve got to see if he’s all right. He could be in trouble.”

  Charlie said, “Go on; take off. We can handle things here till you get back.”

  I looked around at the others, fought the idea of leaving Dottie lying there in the dirt. I’d just seen her that very morning. I thought of the way we’d laughed together on the balcony, how she’d enjoyed having breakfast with me.

  “You want me to go with you?” Bud said, walking beside me as I turned and headed back down to the boat at a fast clip.

  “No. Give me your keys, and I’ll drive your car back over here after I make sure Harve’s okay. I want to break the news to him when we’re alone.”

  “They’re in the ignition.”

  “Okay.” My voice clogged, and my sense of urgency was staggering. I started to run when I hit the lower parking lot. My phone rang about the time I reached the boat. I flipped it open as I climbed aboard and moved into the cockpit. It was Black.

  “Listen, Claire, I just heard from Booker. He called that psychiatric hospital in Farmington and found out that embalmer guy your mother worked for named Herman Landers was committed for psychological evaluation years ago, when he was around twelve or thirteen. The neighbors found him wandering around naked and bloody and dragging a disemboweled dog by its tail. The records show he stayed a couple of months, then his parents came and took him home.”

  “Black, I don’t have time for this, something terrible’s—”

  “Claire, listen to me; this is important. Herman Landers did have a son, and his name was Thomas, just like you thought. Nobody knows what happened to him, and there’s no death certificate for anybody named Thomas Landers or any mention of him in news accounts of the fire that killed his father. Don’t you see, Claire? He could still be alive somewhere. He’s got the violent background and the connection to you…he could be the one!”

  “I don’t care about all that. Dottie’s dead. We just found her at Ha Ha Tonka. Oh, God, she’s dead, Black.”

  “What? When? Is it the same guy?”

  “Yeah.” My voice broke, and I swallowed hard as the storm began to break up the reception. “I gotta get to Harve and tell him. Oh, God, I can’t believe she’s dead; this can’t be real.”

  The static got too bad to hear him, so I shut the phone and opened throttle on the Cobalt and was heading home within minutes. This just couldn’t be happening. Not Dottie. I thought about her wide smile, the way she was always telling me to eat, worrying about my health, worrying about Harve. Now she was dead, like everyone else I’d ever let get close to me. Black was trying to blame it on some poor kid from my past who’d probably been dead for years, but I knew better. This was my fault somehow. I just didn’t know how or why.

  It took me about ten minutes to reach home, and I kept thinking it had to be a mistake, but then I’d see the dead body in the tower, the lean, long muscles, the small breasts, and I knew it was her, and I’d get sick all over again. Oh, God, what’d he do with her head? He’d have it somewhere. He’d keep it in the freezer to put on his next victim. Now I knew how Black felt when I’d sprung the photograph of Sylvie on him. I felt ashamed to have been so heartless, but I couldn’t think about Black now. Think about Harve, think of Harve.

  I roared past my dock and reached Harve’s house a couple of minutes later. The Cobalt was gone and so was Dottie’s kayak. The killer must’ve gotten her when she was out on the lake or alone at the park. She loved to run on the Ha Ha Tonka trails, did it all the time, usually by herself or with her friend Suze. I forced myself to calm down as the Cobalt came into the berth too hard and hit the dock.

  I tried to steady myself. I had to be in control when I told him. The old bass boat was bumping against the dock in the Cobalt’s wake when I jumped out. Harve wasn’t at his desk by the windows. I ran up the sidewalk and found the back door unlocked. There was a note taped to the glass. Gone fishing with Dottie. Be back soon.

  I stared at the note. If he’d been fishing with Dottie, the killer might have accosted them together. Harve might be dead, too. Or lying somewhere wounded or dying. Fighting a terrible sense of foreboding, I ran back to the boat and switched on the tracking system. Harve’s boat was on the screen, a green light blinking on and off in what looked like Possum Cove. Dottie’s favorite fishing hole. That’s where the killer got them.

  29

  The pleasur
e boats and fishing craft had pretty well cleared off the lake, taking no chances with the weather. Far away in the distance, around Osage Beach, thunder rolled threateningly, and lightning spiked the thick gray cloud layer that blocked the sun and cooled the air. The storm was gaining momentum. All I could think about was Harve’s safety, and I headed south, praying he’d not met up with the same fate that Dottie had.

  I had his boat in a fixed position about two miles ahead in Possum Cove. That was Dottie’s favorite fishing hole, and that’s where her friend Suze Eggers lived. It stood to reason they’d fish there.

  The sky had dropped so low, it seemed to hang in the forested hills and bluffs along the shoreline, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I glimpsed Harve’s Cobalt tied at an old, half-submerged boat dock. Veering my craft to starboard, I headed there, growing more alarmed when I saw that the Cobalt and beach were deserted. I cut the motor, guided the bow in close beside Harve’s boat, grabbed a line, and lashed the boats together.

  “Harve! Where are you?” I yelled, climbing aboard the other boat and looking up a narrow, rocky path that ascended the hill through thick vegetation. No answer, just the splashing of wind-driven waves against the shore. I went below but found nothing until I saw what looked like a spray of blood droplets on the floor. Chills played up my spine, and I pulled my weapon and held it up against my shoulder. I climbed on deck and outside found the wind growing wild and whitecaps racing across the cove perpendicular to the boats. The Cobalt’s hull rocked hard enough to make me lose my footing.

  I held on to the cockpit roof and scanned the tree line above the water. Through the tossing branches I saw a black-shingled roof. Suze’s house, it had to be, with Harve’s boat docked down here. The rain began to pelt me in earnest, and I ignored the stinging drops and pulled out my cell phone to request backup. I couldn’t get a signal and remembered there were only a few communication towers in this undeveloped part of the lake, so I tried the Cobalt’s equipment, but the electrical storm was playing havoc with all means of communication. I looked up the steep hill. The cellular might be able to pick up a signal at the top. More importantly, Harve might be up there.