Into the Black Nowhere

by Meg Gardiner

  She raised her hand, made a finger-gun, and mouthed, Bang-bang.

  Of course she knew he was working that night. He stood at the window.

  She didn’t come in. She waited.

  At midnight, when he finished his shift and crossed the street, she rose from the bench. She ground out her cigarette under the toe of her boot. She had a black cat tattoo over her left breast. She was breathing hard, and under the streetlight, the cat seemed to flex and stretch its claws. For a minute, she looked like she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and let him pick her up and sweep her away. Like she wanted to open herself to him, and eat him up.

  He stepped under the streetlight. He raised a hand to speak to her. He meant to talk gently. But she saw his face.

  She turned and ran like a deer. And he ran after her.

  Now, in his kitchen, he stared out the window at the dim black form of the SUV across the street. If Caitlin Hendrix thought a badge and a gun and those ripe lips could shake him up, she didn’t know whom she was dealing with.

  30

  Detrick stepped outside his door at nine forty-five Saturday morning. He wore his houndstooth blazer with jeans and boots. He was carrying an armload of OPEN HOUSE signs. He dumped them in the back of his Envision, slammed the tailgate, and stared across the street at Caitlin. No smiles this morning. He paused, seemingly thinking, and crossed the street.

  She put down the Suburban’s window.

  He stuck his hands in his front pockets, Mr. Casual. “You must be getting tired of this.”

  She took that to mean he was getting tired of it. “Did you stay home last night?”

  He looked away. It was a casual gesture, but she sensed calculation beneath it. Maybe he was wondering if she’d maintained surveillance on his property after he heard her drive off last night. She hoped so.

  “All night. All alone.” His gray eyes turned back to her. “Just like you, I bet.”

  “Don’t forget your phone.”

  Face flat, he crossed the street and climbed into the SUV. The engine gunned as he pulled away. Caitlin turned over the ignition and followed.

  Detrick drove two miles to the Sunset Valley Bank. Caitlin knew, thanks to research Rainey had done, that Detrick maintained his personal account here. He went inside, returned five minutes later, and drove away with a roar. Up the street he went into a bakery, came out with a pink box, and took off again.

  His open house was in a neighborhood of old trees and cracked sidewalks. Caitlin parked up the street from a single-story ranch home, undistinguished and dispirited, though freshly painted, with potted hydrangeas lining the front walk. It was a Potemkin house. A false front.

  Like Kyle Detrick.

  She sat with the engine off. Inside the house, he paced near the front window.

  Her phone rang. Nicholas Keyes.

  “That multiplex theater video,” Keyes said without preamble. “Where the woman disappeared after she went to the concession stand.”

  Caitlin sat up straighter. “You said you were looking at slant routes and interceptions.”

  “I overlaid some Madden NFL–style software on the video. It allowed me to track the victim, then determine whether any other person in the lobby reacted to, or anticipated, her movements, even tangentially.”

  “And?”

  “Sending it to you.”

  Caitlin opened her laptop on the passenger seat. She pulled up the video.

  Keyes said, “See Veronica Lees, with a concentric circle underneath her feet?”

  The video on Caitlin’s screen now looked like an NFL TV replay. A blue circle spun beneath Lees’s shoes, as if she were a wide receiver running a post pattern.

  “This is excellent,” Caitlin said.

  “Keep watching.”

  Veronica worked her way across the foyer. As she joined the long line at the concession counter, a second circle appeared, yellow, around the feet of a figure far across the lobby.

  “Whoa,” Caitlin said.

  The yellow circle spun below a figure in black jeans, a black shirt, and a black hoodie, wearing a black baseball cap. The figure’s back was to the camera, but from the breadth of the shoulders beneath the hoodie, Caitlin judged it to be a man.

  Veronica Lees worked her way closer to the front of the concession line.

  For a few seconds, the figure in black remained stationary. The yellow circle spun beneath his feet. From within it, a yellow arrow appeared. It stretched into a line heading across the lobby toward the far side of the multiplex—to the hallway from which Veronica had first appeared. While Veronica paid for her box of candy, the figure in the hoodie zigzagged through the crowd along the path of the arrow. He never got within thirty feet of her. He headed to the hallway and out of sight.

  It was subtle, and had been hitherto impossible to discern because the figure reached the hallway to the theaters before Veronica did and disappeared around the corner.

  “Holy crap,” Caitlin said. “He got ahead of her and was waiting when she turned the corner.”

  “Like a cornerback getting ahead of a wide receiver. The quarterback throws deep, and the defender is in position to intercept,” Keyes said. “You can’t see the man’s face, not in any of the shots. He knew where the cameras were. But he keeps watch on her from the time she enters the lobby until she reaches the concession stand. Then sets himself up to intercept her.”

  “You’re—”

  “Sending it to the sheriff’s department as we speak. Judging from the height of the counters in the lobby, which I’ve confirmed, the guy in the hoodie is 1.85 meters tall.”

  A chill ran up Caitlin’s neck. “Same as the Dallas garage. Same as the guy I’m watching through the window of this suburban house.”

  Uncertainty entered Keyes’s voice. “The software is picking up some strange artifacts in the video—I’m going to dig a little deeper. But this, I have high confidence, is legit. That’s the UNSUB.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s what I do.” Keyes clicked off.

  Caitlin sat, her pulse racing.

  A car pulled up, a hatchback with a BABY ON BOARD sticker. A young couple emerged, removed a car seat like they were handling nitroglycerin, and headed inside. They looked South Asian, hopeful, intrigued.

  Shana Kerber had been young, hopeful, a mother with a baby about the same age.

  Caitlin’s phone rang. Sean.

  “Hey, babe,” she said.

  “Thinking about the itinerary for my visit,” he said. “Maybe rent a boat and head out across Chesapeake Bay. Knock the walls down at some little B and B. Then tour the Air and Space Museum. Photograph the wreckage of our democracy. Eat candied apples.”

  It was early in California. It sounded like he was outside.

  “You warming up on the sidelines?” she said.

  “Sadie is. Peewee soccer.”

  “She’s four. She can’t even write her name.”

  “She burns calories. She learns to socialize. Field position doesn’t exist. Both teams cluster around the ball at all times, like a swarm of bees in the middle of the field.”

  “You love it,” she said.

  “Damn straight.”

  She leaned back, soothed by a sense of connection with Sean. “Don’t shout instructions at her. Coaches hate it when parents do that. It confuses the kids.”

  “But I am the coach.”

  She laughed. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me either.” The phone went muffled, and he talked to another parent on the sideline. She heard, “Band-Aid,” and “juice box.” When he returned to their conversation, he sounded distracted.

  “Something going on?” she said.

  “Just work.”

  ATF explosives cases were never just work. “What’s up?”

  �
�Bombing in Monterey,” he said. “Last night. Pipe bomb rigged with a tripwire outside the Defense Language Institute.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Motorcyclist hit it at speed. Wrecked and took shrapnel, but he survived. Lucky as hell.”

  She turned to her laptop and pulled up a news article on the bombing. “DOD installation. You think the military was the target?”

  “That’s the working theory. We’re meeting with the police in Monterey this afternoon.”

  He sounded intense and focused. Bombs brought all hands on deck.

  Sean lived for this.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” he said. “Your Saturday off to a good start?”

  Inside the open house, Detrick shook hands with the young parents.

  “Peachy,” she said. “Drive safe, babe. Get the bad guys.”

  “You too.”

  The electricity in his voice was contagious. She hung up, buzzing.

  Outside the open house, another car pulled up and a couple got out. Two men, early thirties, fit and dressed in spiffy casual for a Saturday of house hunting. They paused on the front walk to point out features of the home, heads together, before heading inside.

  Caitlin climbed out and followed. Her pulse was up.

  Inside the front door, a stack of glossy brochures sat on a table. She picked one up. In the living room, the two men were assessing the fireplace and the home’s feng shui. In the back of the house she could hear Detrick’s voice, bright and smooth, as he answered the South Asian couple’s questions. The baby fussed.

  Detrick returned to the living room with the parents, sounding jolly and informative. He saw Caitlin, and his voice faltered.

  He greeted the new couple, suggested they check out the kitchen, urged the young parents to explore the backyard. When they left the room, he approached her.

  “This is getting old,” he said.

  “You’ve only worked as a Realtor for nine months,” she said. “Before that, you were a salesman for a home alarm system company.”

  Rainey, in addition to digging up Detrick’s financials, had obtained his tax and employment records. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet he looked alarmed.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “When did you move to Austin? How long after you dropped out of Rampart College?”

  The gay men in the kitchen turned and surreptitiously listened.

  Detrick stepped closer to her. The previous day’s suggestive banter had disappeared.

  “I’ve played nice. But this is no longer funny. You’re obsessed with me.”

  “What do you know about obsession?” she said.

  His expression curdled. “Stay away from me.”

  “Where were you Saturday night?”

  His expression went flat, and hot, like a griddle. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’re harassing me. I won’t have it. I’ll call the sheriff’s office in Gideon County and have you taken off this investigation.”

  “They would love to talk to you. Call and make an appointment. Ask for Detective Art Berg.”

  “Don’t be clever.” He said it cuttingly, but realized she had outmaneuvered him. “I’ll take it up with your superiors.”

  She held out her card. “The main switchboard will connect you to my unit chief. Special Agent in Charge C.J. Emmerich.”

  Behind him, both couples were staring. The two young men exchanged a perturbed glance and sauntered out the front door. Detrick’s posture tightened. He nearly called to them, but they hurried down the front walk, casting what the hell was that looks over their shoulders.

  Detrick glared at Caitlin’s proffered card. “There are other avenues I can take.”

  “The press, you mean.” She lowered her hand. “They’re drooling for fresh information on these murders—they’d interview you in a heartbeat. Splash it on page one, broadcast it at the top of the hour. Your face will be recognizable from Waco to Laredo.” She smiled. “Fine with me. Reporters, photographers, a couple of news vans—that multiplies the work force. I won’t have to cool my heels driving around behind you all day. They can keep eyes on, and I can finally take a break and try Tomo Sushi.”

  His eyes remained remote. Something was working, feverishly, deep behind his gaze, but he screened it. His shoulders were tight.

  “You’re pathetic. This isn’t a federal-caliber investigation. It’s compulsive desperation.” He nodded at the door. “Leave.”

  She dropped her card on the table in the entry hall. Back in the Suburban, she gripped the wheel, pulse thudding.

  The bastard was rattled.

  31

  Detrick pulled into his driveway at eight forty-five P.M., after a second open house at a condo near Zilker Park and a long shopping trip to Whole Foods in downtown Austin. The hot sauce section in the store took up a hundred yards of shelf space. Caitlin had felt conspicuous by her paucity of visible tattoos.

  Detrick killed the headlights and tromped into the house. Caitlin parked fifty yards up the street, climbed out, and stretched. Her nerves were tight.

  Saturday night.

  Satellite views of the property showed that the next street over was a cul-de-sac. There were no bus stops within a mile and a half of Detrick’s house. The Dodge Charger registered to him was parked in the garage, not stashed a mile away. But if he tried to slip out of the house, she had an infrared app on her phone and a night vision rifle scope.

  Rainey pulled up behind her and climbed out.

  Rainey’s braids fell across the shoulders of her ruby-red fisherman’s sweater. She handed Caitlin a sack from Torchy’s Tacos. They’d decided that trying every Austin taco joint should be a team goal.

  Caitlin’s stomach audibly rumbled. She pulled a taco from the bag and bit into it. “Good God. I would knock over convenience stores to keep myself supplied with this.”

  “I already ate the chips and guac,” Rainey said. “Status?”

  “He’s so over me, he won’t even look at my vehicle. I could be wearing a wolf mask and antlers and he’d pretend not to see me.”

  “Tick on a hound, baby. You’re driving him nuts. Good,” Rainey said. “The next eighteen hours will be critical. You ready?”

  “I have a full tank, a camera, handcuffs, and an extra clip.” And enough adrenaline to overpower her fatigue. And, if that failed, NoDoz.

  They turned toward the house. The kitchen overlooked the street. The lights were off.

  “He’s standing there in the dark, staring back at us,” she said.

  “If he’s a psychopath, his defensive response will be to act out to restore control. He’ll try to put something over on you.”

  “If he tries to climb over the back fence . . .”

  “I’ll be parked there, waiting.”

  Rainey got in her vehicle and pulled away.

  But it was seven fifteen A.M., with the morning sun spearing her eyes, when Detrick strolled out his front door, picked up the Sunday paper, and walked to his SUV, twirling the keys around his index finger.

  Caitlin straightened, suddenly wide-awake. “Ostentatious display, bastard.” She started the engine and phoned Rainey. “He’s on the move. And making a point of showing me he slept nice and cozy in his own bed last night.”

  “We’re done here, then.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re going to run out of steam.”

  “Any reports of—”

  “No.”

  No women had been reported missing overnight. That was good news. Possibly probative news.

  Detrick fired up his Envision, backed out, and roared past Caitlin.

  “Your seventy-two hours are almost up,” Rainey said.

  “I’m not done yet.”

  Caitlin ended the call, put the Suburban in gear, and followed Detrick. Pa
rt of her was thinking, He’s got to be ready to explode. Part of her was thinking, If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted three days when I should have been hunting the real UNSUB.

  Twenty minutes later he stopped outside a wooded apartment complex on the hilly west side of town. Caitlin’s eyes were gritty, her clothes clinging to her, her mouth dry. She needed coffee. And a shower. And eight hours’ sleep. The fatigue swelled and ebbed behind her eyes. But her reserves of adrenaline were amping her up.

  Slip up, you son of a bitch.

  If he was the UNSUB, if he was the one who struck on Saturday nights, he had to be fuming. Had to be boiling with rage at being thwarted.

  Come on. Show yourself to me.

  He had barely exited his SUV when a woman in her thirties strolled from the apartment building, waving. A little girl was at her side, as skinny-legged as a fawn, skipping toward him. Caitlin recognized them from the photo in Detrick’s office. A friend.

  The woman was slight, wearing a modest azure dress. The little girl bounced up to Detrick, jumped up and down, and laughed when he said something to her. He chucked her under the chin. The woman smiled meekly and stood with her hands clasped. Detrick swept an arm around her shoulders, took the little girl’s hand, and ushered them to his Envision. Lord of all he surveyed, beloved of children and small animals and all the birds in the air.

  He drove them to the oak-dotted campus of a megachurch.

  After two hours of songs and sermons, Detrick drove south with the woman and girl on I-35. In San Marcos, forty-five miles down the road, he pulled off at a gargantuan outlet mall. He parked, helped the little girl out, and took his girlfriend’s hand. They strolled toward a food court.

  Caitlin followed, and phoned Emmerich. “He’s trying to wear me down.”

  Or else he’s being exactly the clean-shaven daddy stand-in we refuse to believe he is.

  “You got through Saturday night. That was big—and vital. But you sound exhausted,” Emmerich said. “Nothing’s going to happen on a Sunday morning. Come back to the sheriff’s station.”