“I came to interview Mr. Rushton,” Rasmussen said, snapping to attention. “He was unwilling to speak to me, so I was required to use force.”
“That’s very good thinking, Officer,” Henry said. “Excellent initiative. Then what?”
“He still won’t talk!” Rasmussen wailed, sounding close to tears. “I’ve been asking and asking, but he won’t tell me anything! And I keep trying to remember what you told us about interrogation techniques, but I forget!”
“It’s okay, Officer,” Henry said. “I don’t think we covered that in class.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better!”
Henry could see Rasmussen’s hand shaking; he was clearly about to snap. Rushton, on the other hand, looked completely in control.
“I’ve tried to explain to the officer that I haven’t heard of the woman he’s inquiring about,” the lawyer said. “I’m willing to look at a picture, if you have one.”
“She called you!” Rasmussen shouted.
“She called my offices,” Rushton said. “As I’ve explained, many people work here, and she could have been calling for any of them. Or she could have misdialed. I have offered to let you go over my phone logs for the day in question, to see if her call shows up. What else can I do?”
“You can tell the truth!”
“I am telling the truth,” Rushton said. “The sad fact is that one of the lawyers in the firm might well be involved in these crimes. That person may have killed one of my own employees. As soon as the lawyers return from their retreat, I promise to urge them to cooperate fully with your investigation.”
“You’re stalling!” Rasmussen’s finger was tightening on the trigger. Henry had to do something fast.
“Officer Rasmussen, you will stand down now,” he commanded.
“I can’t!” Now there were tears in Rasmussen’s eyes. “This is all my fault, Detective Spencer. Ellen Svaco was involved in some kind of crime ring in my own town, and I missed it. And I missed the redial thing, too. You tried to teach me, but I was too stupid to understand any of it, and now I’ve messed everything up. I’ve got to make it right!”
“This isn’t the way, Officer,” Henry said. “You can’t fix one crime with another crime.”
“That’s what you said when I was in school, but how do I know this isn’t something that’s much more complicated in grown-up life? Nothing is like it’s supposed to be!”
Rasmussen was about to explode. Henry had to do something fast. He wanted to dive through the window and knock the gun out of his hand. He wanted to tell the officer what a fool he was making of himself. If it had been Shawn in that room, he would have.
But of course his own son would never have been in such a ludicrous position. For all that Shawn pretended not to listen to Henry’s advice, the fact was he always absorbed the important parts. He had allowed Henry to mold him into a man. Chris Rasmussen had never had anyone to do that for him.
“Officer,” Henry started, then softened his tone. “Chris. We had forty-five minutes together twenty years ago. Forty-five minutes with a crowd of other children. And you took that brief meeting and built your entire life around it. Do you have any idea how proud that makes me?”
Henry could see sunlight glinting off the tears in Rasmussen’s face. “Proud?”
“I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to be there for you all along,” Henry said. “I wish I had. I always wanted a second son. I hope you’ll allow me to consider you that now.”
Rasmussen’s hand trembled furiously. And then the gun dropped to the floor.
“Clear!” Henry shouted, and the office was full of police officers in body armor. Henry’s last sight of Rasmussen was just a scrap of flesh buried under a mountain of black uniforms.
Henry was about to rejoin Lassiter when Rushton called his name. He turned back to see that the lawyer had moved towards the window.
“I hope you meant what you said about cooperating,” Henry said to him.
“My devotion to the cause of justice is as strong as yours, even if we express it in different ways,” Rushton said. “I suspected that something was wrong in my firm, but until today I didn’t realize just how bad it was. And that concerns you as well.”
“Me?”
“I heard you mention you have a son,” Rushton said. “He’s a detective, isn’t he?”
“Technically,” Henry said, feeling a cold shiver of fear run down his spine.
“Then there’s something you need to know.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
This time there was no chance that Gus was going to lose sight of the rest of the hiking party. Shawn hadn’t even needed to bring up his notion of roping them all together; no one moved out of anyone else’s view. Gwendolyn and Balowsky walked together, staring at each other. At one point, Gwendolyn, her eyes fixed firmly on Balowsky’s face, hit a rock with her foot and tripped. She fell to the ground, rolled, and popped back up—never looking away from the other lawyer.
Even though there were two people on watch all night long, one of them had managed to slip away in the night and set the trap that took out Savage. If the killer could strike this quickly and this invisibly, what hope did the rest of them have?
From their place at the end of the pack, Gus and Shawn examined Gwendolyn and Balowsky. They both seemed completely consumed in studying each other for treachery.
“One of them is a pretty good actor,” Shawn said. “I wonder if Helstrom needs a new member in his troupe.”
“If only I had shared my watch with someone besides Savage, since he clearly wan’t the killer,” Gus said. “I would have known if whoever was staying up with me had sneaked off to set a snare. That would have narrowed the suspect pool down to one.”
“How much could you actually see when you were on watch?” Shawn said.
“I could see you sleeping,” Gus said. “I could see you sleeping peacefully all night long.”
“You mean you could see whatever was in the direct firelight,” Shawn said.
“That, too,” Gus said. “But mostly I could see you sleeping.”
“Yes, the clever and subtle dig has been heard and now acknowledged,” Shawn said. “But my greater point was that it was really dark in the camp. If Savage had slipped away on your watch, are you sure you wouldn’t have seen him?”
“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have stepped into his own snare,” Gus said.
“You’re getting awfully literal all of a sudden,” Shawn said.
“I’m getting scared,” Gus said. “No, I take that back. I am scared.”
“Okay, there’s a killer out there picking us off one by one,” Shawn said. “But look at the bright side. One more murder and we’ll know for sure who it is. And that’s halfway to safety right there.”
“Unless one of us is the victim,” Gus said.
Shawn stopped to think this over, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “That would be a problem,” he said. “Because if the killer took out you or me, that wouldn’t bring us any closer to knowing who it is.”
“And because I’d be dead,” Gus said, panic rising in his chest. “Or you would. Or we both would.”
“That wouldn’t make any sense,” Shawn said. “If we were both out of the running, then there wouldn’t be any question who the killer was. No, the next murder has to be a single, unless said killer is willing to take all three out at once.”
“What if she is?” Gus said.
“She?”
“Oh, come on,” Gus said. “Only Gwendolyn could have set that trap. She’s the one with all the jungle lore at her fingertips. She’s the one who is obviously willing to kill without even blinking. And she’s coming after us next.”
“It’s a good argument, but if we guess wrong—”
“I’m not guessing,” Gus said. “I know. I know from my dreams. Because the thing that’s chasing me is always female. I just never realized until right now that it was a female human.”
&nb
sp; “This is based on your dream?” Shawn said. “Haven’t you learned anything from working for a fake psychic-detective agency?”
“I know something has been trying to warn me of this day for almost as long as I’ve been alive,” Gus said. “I know that I’ve lived what happens next again and again—and I’ve never survived it.”
“If you give in to panic and superstition, we are never going to make it home,” Shawn said. “We need to be intelligent. Rational.”
“Says the psychic,” Gus said.
“Exactly,” Shawn said. “We can get away with almost anything by claiming I’m psychic—because people aren’t intelligent and rational. They believe that stuff. We don’t.”
“Then maybe you should start using that brain of yours,” Gus snapped.
“I am,” Shawn said.
“You’re using your feet,” Gus said. “You’re using your mouth. But you’re not using your brain. You’re walking along this trail, waiting for the killer to reveal herself, gambling that her preferred method of doing so won’t involve our decapitation. But what you’re not doing is the one thing you do well—putting together a series of microscopic clues and solving the case.”
Shawn stopped, scowling angrily. “Have you considered maybe I’m doing this for you?”
Gus stopped, too. “You’re keeping me stranded in the wilderness with an insane killer for my own good?”
“Immersion therapy,” Shawn said. “You’ve got to get over this bizarre, superstitious fear of a silly dream.”
“Even if it kills me.”
“At least you’ll be cured,” Shawn said and started down the trail.
Gus grabbed the top of Shawn’s pack and pulled him back. “Don’t you dare blame this on me,” he said through clenched teeth. “People are dead. We could be dead. You can’t be doing this to help me with my recurring dream. Even if you do have one of—”
Gus broke off, realization dawning on him. Shawn saw it coming and tried to get away.
“If that’s the way you feel, I apologize,” Shawn said as he took a step down the trail again.
But Gus wouldn’t let go of his pack, and Shawn was jerked back like a marionette whose puppeteer suffered from Parkinson’s. “You never told me what your recurring dream was,” Gus said.
“It’s really not important now,” Shawn said. “If you want me to solve this crime now and leave you emotionally crippled, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“This is your recurring dream,” Gus said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shawn said. “This is your recurring dream. See? Wilderness? Lost? Big scary monster in the trees?”
Again Shawn tried to get away, and again Gus held him back. “In your recurring dream, people are dying, there’s a killer right in front of you, and you can’t figure out who it is,” Gus said. “That’s your deepest fear, isn’t it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shawn said with a complete lack of conviction.
He did. Gus could see it in his eyes. Shawn was afraid, and it wasn’t of the killer. He was afraid of a vision he’d seen in a dream over and over again. Gus let go of his pack and took him by the shoulders.
“You can do this, Shawn,” Gus said. “You know you can. I know you can. It’s just another case, just another set of clues.”
“It’s not!” Shawn said loudly enough for Gwendolyn and Balowsky to hear—and to stop walking. He moved in closer to Gus and whispered, “I don’t have clues here. I don’t know who the killer is, and I won’t until one of them is kind enough to eliminate the other one from suspicion.”
“You only think there aren’t any clues,” Gus said. “But there are. There have to be. You’ve seen them, you’ve heard them. You just didn’t notice at the time. But they’re all in your head. All you have to do is put them together. And you’ve got to do it now.”
Shawn still looked shaken. “Why now?”
“I’ve seen you solve enough crimes to know that there are two elements you need before you can swing into action,” Gus said. “You need the clues—and you need an audience. If you wait much longer, there won’t be anyone left to be stunned by your revelations. And then you might never be able to pull it together.”
Shawn looked up the trail at Gwendolyn and Balowsky, who were staring back at them. “They’re not much of an audience.”
“Next time we’ll book the State Theater,” Gus said. “Right now this is what we’ve got. So go dazzle ’em.”
Shawn took a deep breath. Then another one. Then he plastered a broad smile across his face.
“Wait up, guys,” he called to the lawyers. “Let’s take a break and unmask a killer.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
The reveal wasn’t going well, Gus could tell. It had started ou t strongly. Shawn was full of his usual bravado as he launched into an explication of the case’s known facts. But even as he was finishing up the saga of their ordeal at Descanso Gardens, Gus could feel he was losing momentum—and with that, his audience. Even the revelation that the gun-toting mime was actually their late colleague Archie Kane didn’t elicit more than the slightest gesture of impatience from Gwendolyn and Balowsky.
“So everything Rushton told us about you was a lie,” Gwendolyn said. “That’s a shock. Can we start walking again?”
“We’re just getting to the good part,” Shawn said, a hint of desperation in his voice.
The trouble was, Gus knew, he wasn’t getting to the good part. Gus had listened to enough of these summations to understand their structure. Shawn would lay out what seemed like a string of facts known to everyone, apparently at random. What his audience wouldn’t understand until it was too late was that there was nothing random about the selection. Shawn would pick out the precise pieces of information that built up, step by step, to his conclusion. As a technique, it was flawless. Even when Shawn was wrong—something that happened along the way before he hit the ultimate solution in the occasional case—the summation itself never was. The chosen clues would always lead inexorably to the determined conclusion. If that conclusion was wrong, it was simply that Shawn had selected the wrong pieces or put them together in the wrong way.
But this time was different. Shawn didn’t have a destination in mind, so he had no guide in choosing his clues. He was spewing out everything he’d seen, heard, and done over the last week, in the desperate hope that he could pick a pattern out of it. Gus suspected the lawyers had no idea how much Shawn was struggling, because they’d never witnessed the master at work. He could still put on an entertaining show. But Gus knew it was just a show, and he found it painful to watch.
“Yes,” Shawn said. “Rushton lied to you all. For good reason. He suspected that one of you had killed Archie Kane. Or—”
He broke off, trying to figure out where to go next. Gus gave him a nod of encouragement.
“Or did he know?” Shawn said. “Know because he was working with the killer all along?”
“Why do you need a driver’s license to buy liquor when you can’t drink and drive?” Balowsky said. “Why are their interstate highways in Hawaii? If you want to play rhetorical questions, we can be here until the mountain crumbles into sand, and then we don’t have to worry about walking down. Unless we’re murdered first.”
“As if that’s something you’re worried about,” Gwendolyn said.
“Standing next to you, I am,” Balowsky said. “Why don’t you just get it over with? I’ll even let you have your favorite target.”
He turned his back on her—and then whirled around quickly to see if she was aiming a knife at it.
Gus looked at Shawn. Wasn’t he going to stop this? But Shawn wasn’t paying attention to the bickering lawyers. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything outside himself. He stared off into the far distance, the beginnings of a smile on his face.
“Shawn?” Gus said.
“Rushton brought us into the conference room apparently so we could learn what you all were like,” Sha
wn said. “And you didn’t disappoint. Gwendolyn Shrike attacked immediately, only to retreat when there was clearly no hope for victory. Kirk Savage hid behind legal technicalities. Morton Mathis was scared we’d reveal his real identity. Reggie Balowsky sat back and waited to see who was going to win before he chose a side. And Jade Greenway, poor, sweet Jade Greenway, bravely stood up for us.”
“Bravely!” Gwendolyn almost spat the word. “Is it brave to suck up to your boss?”
Gus stared at Shawn. What was he doing now? What he was saying still seemed like a stall, but there was confidence in his voice and a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there when he started the reveal.
“Not to speak ill of the dead or anything,” Balowsky said.
“The only reason you don’t speak ill of the dead is because you can’t do them any more damage that way,” Gwendolyn said.
“Personally, I’m all in favor of sucking up to the boss,” Shawn said. “Of course, that may have something to do with the fact that I run my own business and I end up sucking up to myself. Which isn’t really as easy as it sounds. Anyway, there’s sucking up and there’s sucking up. It’s one thing to lavish praise on your boss’s new pet detectives. It’s another thing to do it before you even know they exist. This is the point where you ask what I’m talking about.”
If it was, neither Gwendolyn nor Balowsky was taking advantage of the opportunity. They were glaring at each other, unmoving.
“I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime,” Gwendolyn said. “So if you’re going to try to kill me, go ahead.”
“No point pretending with me,” Balowsky snarled. “We both know I didn’t do it, and that only leaves you. And I’d like to see you try it now.”
Balowsky opened his hand, revealing the Swiss Army knife he had palmed. It was opened to its largest blade, and the three inches of forged steel trembled in Gwendolyn’s direction. Gus didn’t see her move, but somehow she had a large rock in her hand, which she was holding up as a club.
“They seem pretty busy,” Shawn said to Gus. “Maybe you should ask what I’m talking about.”
The Call of the Mild Page 25
