Roarke shook his head. “You could never have been in a room with anyone for more than two seconds and have gotten so little from it.”
Snyder spread his hands in acknowledgement.
“So what did she want?”
“She wanted to talk about you,” Snyder said quietly. There was something in his tone that gave Roarke pause.
“What about me?” he asked warily.
“Anything about you, I think,” Snyder said, and Roarke felt a vortex inside him, swirling feelings, swirling thoughts, nothing clear.
So he moved away from it. “What did she say exactly?”
“She said ‘It’s a trap.’”
Roarke felt cold. “She knows we’re trying to trap her.” But he was not surprised. He’d known she would know.
“No. She said It is a trap.”
Roarke felt hollow, through and through. “It. Some monster, you mean.” Some abstraction of evil he didn’t fully understand.
Snyder had explained elements of Cara’s psychological state before: her almost-death as a child had fixed her in the age of the trauma, five years old, before the age of reason. She existed in a state of magical thinking, ruled by fantasy, metaphor that appeared real to her, and driven by synchonicities. She’d seen the Reaper as a monster; now she saw the men she killed as monsters.
“Something larger than human, yes,” Snyder said. “She does not see the world in the same way that we do.”
Roarke stood still with that.
Then Snyder spoke again. “There was one more thing she said.” Roarke looked at him, and Snyder spoke softly, obviously quoting. “‘It’s me It wants. Tell him.’”
Roarke stared at him, in complete turmoil. “Tell me… to use her as bait?”
“I believe that’s what she meant, yes.”
Bait, again, traps and trapping, but this time the hunted was offering herself up to bait the trap. It was all twisting in on itself.
“That’s insane,” he said aloud, and paced the room. “Why would she want to do that? Why would she even…” He fell silent, then anger rose in him. “It’s impossible anyway. I’m supposed to arrest her, not—”
He stopped. There had been a slight, startled reaction on Snyder’s face, so uncharacteristic for him that Roarke caught his own slip instantly. He’d said,“I’m supposed to arrest her.” Supposed to.
“Use her as bait.” He slammed his hand against the wall. “What do I do with that?”
“I don’t know,” Snyder said. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty-four
When Roarke finally left Snyder’s cabin, he was too agitated to go back to his own. He needed a game plan. He needed to process everything that had happened in the day if he had any chance of his next move making any sense at all, let alone being the right one.
So instead of going up the porch stairs to his cabin, he kept walking up the stepping stones to the road beyond. The asphalt ended at a dirt path and he kept going, into the towering shadows of trees. The air was freezing and the moonlight was a brilliant white, glistening on crunchy patches of leftover snow. Orion and Cassiopeia were up, the fog had lifted and the night was so clear that the constellations were still visible in the sky despite the brightness of the almost-full moon.
It was not until he could no longer see the shapes of cabins behind him that he was finally able to let himself consider Cara’s words.
It’s me It wants.
To use her as bait was impossible. Isn’t it? He couldn’t begin to think how she might have meant it.
And why would she want to? To kill the Reaper? Kill It? Or was there something more?
Something that had to do with him?
In his mind, he heard Snyder’s words:
“She wanted to talk about you.”
“What about me?”
“Anything about you, I think.”
It was then he realized that he was out in the night not to clear his mind, not to walk off tension. He was looking for her.
The underbrush rustled on the path beside him, freezing his heart, and then some large presence crashed forward in the brush and loomed up in the dark above him with huge, alien, glistening eyes…
Roarke jolted back, and realized he was staring up at a horse. It stopped still in the moonlight, towering above him, and seeming just as mesmerized by Roarke as he was by it. And then it turned and bolted back into the trees.
It took Roarke a heart-pounding moment to realize there was a split-rail fence in front of him, almost completely concealed by the bushes. As he moved closer to it he could see the field enclosed by the fence, and long low buildings in the dark. A sign above the double stable doors read Arrowhead Riding Academy.
Stables.
He stared, his mind whirling.
Lynn Fairchild rode at the same stables as Terry Granger.
And then he strode toward the fence and grasped the rough railing, eyes searching the darkness, finding the curve of parking lot: pickup trucks, buggies…
And a row of silver horse trailers.
He took the path back to the cabins at a run, and was panting by the time he sprinted around the corner of his cabin. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Epps turned on the porch with Glock in hands; he had Roarke dead to rights. Roarke raised his hands and told him, “Horses.”
Epps stared down at him in the dark.
“We were thinking the Fairchild and Cavanaugh kids might have been watched at their school. But what if Tanner Fairchild rides horses, like his mother? There’s a riding academy right down the road. What if the Reaper spotted the boys at the stables?”
“Horse trailers,” Epps said slowly, and Roarke could hear the excitement in his voice. “The Reaper drives horse trailers.”
Epps reaching for the phone to call Singh when they were interrupted by the slash of headlights through the trees, followed by the sound of an engine and tires on gravel. They moved toward the parking lot, and stepped into the lights of a Sheriff’s SUV. It stopped in one of the parking spaces near the cabins and Lam piled out of the back seat, followed by Stotlemyre from the passenger side.
“We’ve got something,” Stotlemyre announced.
“Horse hair,” Lam reported simultaneously, with something like glee. “We found horse hair.”
“From both crime scenes,” Stotlemyre added.
Roarke went to rouse Snyder. He came to the door fully dressed, wide-awake. Jones joined them and the agents gathered in the small living room of Roarke’s cabin, while Stotlemyre started the narrative.
“There were a few equine hairs identified in the Leland evidence but it wasn’t a red flag, it’s a horse neighborhood. But— the horse hair at both scenes was only collected from the rooms of the two thirteen-year old boys, Seth Leland and Robbie Cavanaugh.”
The rooms where the Reaper spent the most time.
Lam added, “And the hairs we found are consistent in color and length. We have to get them under the microscope to compare…”
“And it’s a long shot,” Stotlemyre warned. He glanced from Roarke to Epps. “But on the drive up you two were talking about resort activities and sports, a delivery route that would bring a driver or salesman into all of the towns where the massacres have occurred…”
Roarke hadn’t even known that the techs had been listening, and he felt a rush of adrenaline. This was what he thought of the sweet spot of a case, when everything started to converge. If only we have enough time.
“We’re already on that. What do you need?” he demanded.
Stotlemyre looked at Lam. “We need to get all the trace evidence back to a lab and compare the hairs under a polarized light scope for microscopic consistencies. But the real clincher —”
“Would be DNA,” Lam said. “The Jockey Club registers thoroughbreds. Owners have to provide DNA to prove the horse’s parentage. So if it’s the same horse, and it’s registered with the Jockey Club, then we’ll know the owner, and we can get a schedule of drivers who have worked with t
he specific horse, and we can nail this fucker.”
The work suddenly had a trail, a focus. The techs had already sent the horse hair via a deputy to the nearest airport to rush to Quantico for expedited DNA testing. Lam and Stotlemyre divided themselves up: Stotlemyre would stay with the scene, Lam would go down the mountain to the sheriff’s lab in San Bernardino to start the comparison of the horse hair and other trace evidence, and also to be close at hand as the county coroner performed the autopsies on the Cavanaugh family.
Epps got on the phone with Singh to get her checking horse transport companies and driving routes that included Reno and Arrowhead, and asking about employees who might fit the age range and Snyder’s profile of the Reaper.
From the corner by the fire, Snyder said to Epps, “Tell Singh to focus on employees at horse transport companies in or near Arcata.”
“Arcata?” Roarke stared at him, knowing it was right, but a beat behind. “Why?”
“Because as you said yourself, it’s the anomaly. Not a resort town. And it was the site of the first massacre. That makes it likely to be the killer’s home base.”
“You really think Arcata…” Roarke started.
“I think the signs are pointing that way. There’s no obvious link but… I don’t think we should ignore it.”
“You’re going mystical on me,” Roarke said. Snyder didn’t answer him, which he didn’t want to think too much about. But the Arcata connection decided his next move.
“I’m going down to Crestline,” he announced. “To interview Lynn and Tanner Fairchild.”
“I’m on the riding academy,” Epps told him. “Anyone who set foot on that place in the last month I’m going to know it.”
“Good. We’re close, now.” And then as Roarke headed for the door, he stopped, turned, and looked at his team. “Watch yourselves. Be safe.”
As he stepped outside the cabin into the night, it started to snow.
Chapter Thirty-five
Snow fell thickly on the curves of highway as a deputy drove Roarke down the hill to the nearby mountain town where the sheriff’s department was keeping the Fairchilds under guard.
Crestline was a less upscale version of Arrowhead, with more sprawling, less elegant family homes and cabins set back from the road that circled a small dark lake.
The deputy turned off the main road at a collection of mailboxes and rumbled down a dirt road toward the water. The house was set even further back from the dirt access road, near the shoreline. The deputy parked at the end of the road and escorted Roarke down a packed-earth path, speaking into a cell phone to inform the on-duty guards they were approaching.
The yard, such as it was, was simply a clearing. No lawn or landscaping, just empty spaces beneath trees. There was a wooden trash enclosure by the side of the house, dormant roses in a few simple flowerbeds, a swing set off to the other side, and a concrete birdbath near the entrance. The downstairs lights were on inside the house, and bright security lights outside it. Roarke saw a uniformed man in the elongated shadows between trees, nodding to them as they approached the porch. He felt a knot in his chest loosen slightly. Everything looked well under control.
Another deputy came to the door, and Roarke followed him into a wood-paneled den where Lynn Fairchild sat on a sofa by the fire. No gas logs here; Roarke could smell pine sap. Despite the hour Lynn was fully dressed, an expensive sweater and slacks. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup.
“I appreciate your seeing me,” he told her.
“It’s not like I was sleeping,” she said. Irony was heavy in her voice.
“Your husband isn’t back yet?”
She shook her head. “Chicago’s still snowed in.” She stood. “Would you like coffee?”
“Coffee would be great, but… it’s really Tanner I need to speak with.”
She looked back at him in betrayal, and Roarke understood, but there was nothing to be done about it. “I’m sorry, but I thought you would be more likely to let me talk to him if I was already here.” He added softly, before she could deny him. “The Reaper kills on the full moon. We have three days to get him before he does this again.”
She took an abrupt step toward him and her hand trembled at her side as if she wanted to slap him, but then she shook her head. “I know I have to let you. I don’t have to like it.”
He nodded to her. “Thank you. I need to know first – does Tanner ride horses? At the Arrowhead Academy, maybe?”
“Not any more. Definitely not at the Academy.”
“Not ever?
“He did when he was younger, but you know, boys…” She sounded resigned.
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Horses are a ‘girl thing.’” She shrugged. “Around eleven, he just lost all interest.”
Roarke actually did understand. He wouldn’t have been caught dead on a horse at that age either.
She turned away toward the stairs, and then paused and glanced back, her face shadowed. “You can get your own coffee.”
The kitchen was more knotty pine. Roarke found a pot of hot coffee already made in the brewer on the counter. When he emerged from the kitchen with a cup, Tanner Fairchild was thumping down the stairs, a kid with every bit of his mother’s blond good looks, dressed in sweatpants, a thick sweatshirt, and oversized socks. He stood beside Lynn as she introduced Roarke, then he slumped in a chair while she walked back upstairs without looking at Roarke.
The boy was sleepy and irritable from the start, a hostility Roarke figured he was entitled to. He sat down on the edge of the armchair opposite Tanner. “I’m sorry to have to wake you like this,” he began.
“Yeah,” Tanner said.
“But it’s very important that we know what you were doing in the last week. Have you noticed anyone watching you? Any men?”
“Any pervs, you mean,” the boy said harshly. “They already asked this, you know.”
Roarke did know. “And you said you didn’t see anyone at school or in town. But what about at the stables?”
The boy looked away from him. “Why would I be at the stables?”
Roarke looked at him. Tanner was bouncing his foot on the floor, a sign of agitation. Something here.
“You know what I mean, though. The riding academy.”
“I don’t ride horses. It’s gay.”
There was no time for a lecture on tolerance. “I don’t think gay has much to do with horses,” Roarke said mildly. “And horses are pretty magnificent, if you ask me.”
The boy fidgeted, looking at him warily.
“Maybe you went over to look at them,” Roarke suggested.
The boy was sullenly silent.
“This is important, Tanner. Were you and Robbie Cavanaugh ever at the stables together?”
The boy looked away from him. “Robbie doesn’t ride.”
“Okay, Robbie doesn’t ride. But were you at the stables together some time this week? Even just outside, to look?”
The boy looked flustered, defensive… caught. Roarke knew he was close to something. “You’re not in any trouble,” he said softly. “But I need to know.”
Beside them, the fire snapped, and Tanner flinched, then burst out: “We were just looking. We weren’t hurting anything.”
“Of course you weren’t. What day was that?”
The boy swallowed, thought. “Last week. Thursday, I think. We were watching the jumps.”
That was good. Roarke could get the exact schedule from the stables, and a list of anyone who might have been there. He spoke again.
“I only want to know if you saw anyone hanging out, or…” he phrased the next carefully, “if anyone saw you?”
“No one saw us.”
Not that boys would have noticed. Roarke tried a different tack. “Could you see the horse trailers from where you were?”
“Yeah…”
“Was there anyone around there, standing nearby?”
“No. Yeah. There was a guy,” Tanner said, and l
ooked surprised that he’d said it.
“Good,” Roarke said, and could barely breathe. “What guy?”
Tanner frowned. “Some skinny guy with greasy hair.”
“And why did you notice him?”
“Kinda creepy,” Tanner admitted. And then he shuddered, an involuntary spasm of dread, and Roarke felt a shiver of his own. He saw him. The Reaper was there.
“White or black or Latino?” he asked aloud, his voice firm and authoritative, in command.
“White.”
“Dark hair or blond?”
“Dark. Black.”
Now they were on a roll, Tanner answering automatically. Roarke kept the questions short and simple, to keep the boy in a rhythm.
“Long hair or short?”
“Kinda long.”
“How he was dressed?”
“Dirty. Jeans, some old ratty coat.”
“Shoes or boots?”
“Shoes. Kinda beat up and muddy.”
Ten minutes later Roarke was thrilled to have a decent description of a man who sounded like a recent convict: gaunt, pasty-faced, stringy black hair, something intense in his eyes. Finally, a break, he thought, with exhaustion bordering on desperation. He pushed that all down to focus on Tanner.
“Tanner, you’re being a huge help with this investigation. I’m going to ask you one more thing. I’m going to send a sketch artist for you to say these same things to, and help us come up with a picture.”
During the questioning Tanner had been caught up in the back-and-forth rhythm, just as Roarke had intended. But now that the questioning was over, he seemed agitated.
“What did he do?” Tanner asked him. His eyes were too big, too dark.
Roarke didn’t want to lie to the boy but he also didn’t want to get into the details of what the Reaper had actually done.
“I don’t know yet,” he answered.
“He killed our cat?” There was outrage in the boy’s voice.
Much worse than that, Roarke thought. “I don’t know yet,” he repeated. “But he’s a bad guy. And you’ve just made it a lot easier for us to catch him.”
Blood Moon Page 24
