“I’m looking for Rico Ferguson.”
The man in the rumpled suit let a breath splutter out between his lips and shook his head. “Our boy Rico missed a meeting with an important client this afternoon, but I wouldn’t worry. With things the way they are, I’m sure he’s riding out the storm in comfort.” His face lit up with a bright idea. “You could try his place out on the Case Inlet.”
“Thanks,” said Rick, not bothering to filter out the sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
He returned to the Mustang and resumed his drive through the desolate city, aimless now, wandering. The silence was broken periodically by the eerie wail of a far-off siren or a two-toned alarm. A light snowfall of ash brushed the windshield.
“I’m not giving up. No way.”
Rick kept repeating the words to himself, but he was so tired and out of ideas. He’d been driving without a conscious destination and found himself nearing HQ. He decided to keep researching and digging for details on the suspect. He could sack out on the couch when he’d had enough and maybe, in the morning, new options would open up.
He parked and stepped out into the sulfurous air.
CHAPTER 34
THE ELECTRICITY WAS STILL OUT when the killer made himself a cold meal, ham on rye with a dill pickle. He’d never tasted a dill pickle until middle school, when the band sold them to raise funds for a trip to perform at Disneyland. That’s how he met Toby.
Toby played the clarinet. A tall, skinny boy who favored polo shirts and skipped, rather than walked. A pickle pusher. Toby wanted that trip to Disneyland and he hit up everyone he passed. A quarter changed hands, a pickle was passed, a friendship was made.
Toby was the only one he ever brought home, and Toby seemed to understand and respect the peculiarities of the mortuary and the ways of the woods behind the funeral home where they played. Sometimes they caught small animals, or mummified grasshoppers. He taught Toby the things his mother had taught him, the secret things, and he knew Toby would keep them safe.
That summer a series of earth tremors plagued the area, worrying the residents. He and Toby waited for them to subside, watching the television news with a soberness that matched that of the grownups. When the tremors intensified and the media trumpeted warnings of doom, the boys knew what had to be done and a sense of importance, of responsibility, settled upon them. They prepared, tearing a cotton strip from the sheet they’d hidden in the mortuary storeroom. They gathered the appropriate sticks of wood, three different kinds, and stones of the proper size and shape, erecting the altar beside a deep ravine.
A squirrel would not do, not under these circumstances. They both understood that, but it was the hardest decision he’d ever made and when he raised the killing stone, he saw fear in Toby’s eyes. That hurt, knowing that in those last seconds Toby had suffered doubt. Doubt was the worst kind of torture and his job, then, became a kindness, as well as a necessity.
He anointed the banner with Toby’s blood, saving it for the Burning. Then he kissed Toby and pushed his friend—his only friend—into the ravine, watching his body bounce and slide to the bottom, where it came to rest against a large boulder.
He went home and the earth tremors stopped. The news, instead, was about a missing boy. They found Toby the next day, the tragic victim of an accidental death, and his body was delivered by hearse to the funeral home. His father helped unload it.
The killer cried. He wept for days, despondent and sullen. He had never had such a friend, and never would again.
Until he met John.
CHAPTER 35
RILEY CLAMPED DOWN ON THE wave of panic that was spreading through her. She made herself stop at the front door and put on the coverings to protect the scene. She understood the paramount importance of this ritual, the preservation of the crime scene. Though she’d never before been on the site of a murder, she’d watched enough television and read enough books. The sense of justice was sufficiently heavy upon her that she suppressed the impulse to run screaming through the house and proceeded, instead, with caution.
She called for Nate and followed his voice to the kitchen. She stopped at a respectful distance, out of the line of sight, and modulated her voice.
“We need to go right now. The water is almost over the bridge.”
“I’m not finished here.”
“Nate! We’ll be stranded.”
“If the house is going to flood, then it’s even more vital that I document everything now before the evidence is destroyed.”
“If we don’t get off this island, everything you’ve collected will flood with it.”
“Debatable.”
“There’s no time for debate. Let’s go!”
A pause. Then he spoke again, his voice still maddeningly calm.
“Could you come in here a minute?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Riley, I need to know if you can identify these bodies.”
Unbelievable. But again, the weight of justice impressed itself upon her. She took a deep breath and rounded the corner, steeling herself. Nate walked her first to one face, and then the other. Horror stole over her in a convulsing shudder. She had never seen such devastation of human life, a scene from TV, made stark and real. Nate lifted her chin, steadying her with his eyes.
“You okay?”
She swallowed and pulled her face from the tenderness of his grip, fearing his sympathy would break the last straws of her composure.
“I’m sure I’ve never seen the woman, but the man looks familiar. He may be the butler.”
“Alright. There’s one more, in the atrium. Can you hang in there?”
She nodded. Nate led her through the house, a gentle hand under her elbow. In the atrium, he waited while she looked at Rico. He’d been a man filled with confidence and determination. His vitality had animated his face, radiating from him. So strange to look at him now, the sparks extinguished, his features plastic and still.
“That’s Rico Ferguson,” she confirmed.
Nate bowed his head. “I need to do one more thing. Will you help me?”
“The bridge, Nate.”
“This won’t take long, but it’s important. Find a linen closet and bring me at least three sheets. White, if you can find them.”
Seething with impatience, Riley ran up the stairs and started opening doors in the corridor. She found a double-doored closet filled with folded bed linens and towels. She grabbed an armful of white sheets and tore back down the stairs.
“We have to move the bodies, Riley. If water takes the house, they’ll be disturbed.”
“Moving them won’t disturb them?”
“Of course, but we’ll try to keep them as intact as possible. We’re going to transfer each to a white sheet, which will act as an envelope, and we’ll carry them upstairs where the water won’t reach.”
“We are about to be trapped on this island. With three dead bodies.”
“Steady on, Riley, there’s sure to be a boat we can use, if need be. Focus on helping me with this.”
She swallowed and spread a sheet next to Rico’s body. They lifted him carefully onto it, trying to preserve his position as much as possible, and folded the sheet around him like a cocoon.
“Look there.” Riley pointed. Nate found the camera and took several photos, then lifted an object from the crushed grass. It was a brown leather tassel, the kind that might adorn a man’s loafer.
“Could he have torn it off the killer’s shoe and hidden it under his body?” Riley asked.
“It’s not outside the realm of possibility. It certainly didn’t come off the sneakers he was wearing.” He bagged the tassel and made a note. “Let’s take him upstairs and get the other two. Chop, chop. Water’s rising.”
Riley shot him an annoyed look and took up the end of the sheet that wrapped Rico’s feet. They carried him up and laid him on the floor in one of the bedrooms, making two more trips for the other bodies. They loaded the laundry basket with the
collected evidence and stowed it, with the camera and other paraphernalia, in the rear of the Explorer.
“Let’s get out of here!”
Nate drove fast down the road to the bridge, but as they crested the slight rise and saw the choppy waves slapping at the bridge, dread seized Riley by the throat.
They were too late.
CHAPTER 36
TOPPER’S JEEP WAS THE ONLY car on the road. The blacktop crossed over the sparsely populated peninsula, passing through small communities and clusters of roadside concerns. Topper saw a beauty parlor, a tiny real estate office, a drive-through coffee shack, and wondered how these places stayed solvent. Could there be enough repeat business here to support these isolated enterprises? They seemed the antithesis of “location, location, location.”
He was well away from the water now, driving west, and it appeared to be snowing. Topper knew the tiny flakes that fell were not snow, but ash. The prevailing winds would drive huge loads of ash to the east, dumping over cities like Spokane, into Idaho, probably reaching six or seven states. But here, it merely dusted down like a light snow.
That could change.
He passed a large quadrangle of grass, mostly hidden by the darkened sky, and remembered attending a medieval festival there years ago. Not far from here, was a motorsports park. And there was plenty of waterfront and water-related recreation. He reconsidered his ideas on local free enterprise and decided the tenacious business owners might be onto something.
As he neared the Case Inlet, the road grew curvier, narrower, and inched closer to the water. Topper slowed the Jeep almost to a crawl. It was too dark to see properly, but it looked as if the water had risen to an alarming level and seemed to be licking hungrily at the road in some spots. He’d seen hardly a living soul since he’d crossed the spit, but he passed a car, now, headed the opposite direction. The driver flashed his brights and honked, signaling trouble ahead.
Topper rounded a curve and the road disappeared beneath a gaping hole, a crumbled mass of asphalt, chewed and swallowed by the tossing waves. He braked hard and the Jeep skidded, the rear wheels slewing to the left. On a sideways trajectory, Topper skidded toward the brink.
CHAPTER 37
RILEY WATCHED NATE RUN OUT onto the bridge. The wind had picked up and swirls of mocha-colored water surged up, splashing the rails and sliding back down in a repetitive motion that seemed intent on sucking the structure down into the murky depths. Three sets of wooden bars ran along each side of the bridge. On the way in, they had seemed more than substantial, but now they offered all the assurance of popsicle sticks. Riley’s hands were rigid on the dashboard as she leaned forward, peering into the shafts of light cast by the headlamps.
Nate finished his survey of the bridge and returned to the car. He rolled down all the windows.
“Unfasten your seatbelt,” he said.
“Okay. What are we going to do?”
“We’re getting out of here.”
“By boat?” Riley asked doubtfully.
“Nope. Now, listen. We’re driving across this bridge and it’s going to hold us. But if,” he held up a hand shushing her, “if we end up in the water, slide out the window and swim for shore. Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about the car.”
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to like it. Let’s just get through it.”
Nate put the car in gear and they entered the bridge, moving at a creep. His hands gripped the steering wheel, white with tension, his eyes riveted ahead. Riley felt her stomach contract and she started shivering.
“Breathe, Riley. In. Out. We’re okay.”
She inhaled and exhaled per instruction, focusing on the feel and the sound of her breaths. A layer of stress slid away as they neared the halfway point without mishap and she realized that Nate was singing. It was low and muttering, but it was definitely a song, and it sounded familiar.
There was a sudden crash and the bridge shuddered, hit by an enormous tree that had ripped from the earth, trailing its roots. A battered washing machine was tangled in the branches, stark and white against the darkness and one gnarled bough swept over the top of the railing and reached into their path, like the tentacle of a hungry sea creature. Riley’s throat convulsed, but she managed to swallow, resuming her steady pattern of breathing.
Nate briefly lost the thread of his tune, but he started up again and she joined him on the chorus, recognizing the Simon and Garfunkel tune, Bridge Over Troubled Water. Waves continued to slosh over the road in front of the car and Riley tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong, tried to block out the episode of Mythbusters, the videos on YouTube. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. The tree screeched against the steel supports, and the dark water slapped and moaned. Nate sang, and they arrived on the far side of the bridge.
Riley felt drained, barely able to muster the strength to buckle her seatbelt when Nate demanded it. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder and she heard him let out a long breath and knew he’d been more worried than he’d let on. When they reached the main road, they saw that the lower end of it, which ran along the inlet, was underwater. Nate turned right, heading uphill, and they made their way back to Route 3. Parts of the road were flooded or littered with debris and they had to stop, once, to clear a mass of broken timbers that had somehow ended up in the middle of the street. They reached the highway, and Nate signaled to turn left, toward the Sheriff’s department in Shelton, but Riley gasped and gripped his arm, pointing down the road to the right.
The water was over the broken yellow center line and seemed to be clawing at the asphalt. A suckhole had formed beneath the curve of the road, pulling in trees and garbage, chewing it up and spitting it out. The road was next. If they didn’t cross the gap now, they’d be cut off from Mountain Vista for the foreseeable future. If they did cross the gap, they’d be cut off from the authorities.
Riley looked at Nate, saw the indecision in his face. She turned back and watched in horror as a large chunk of earth dissolved, collapsing into the maw, shrinking their passage. The Explorer lurched forward, racing over the narrowing road, wheels spinning and sliding on the slick, buckling pavement. They cleared the precarious ledge and Nate pulled to the inland side of the road about thirty yards ahead, where the earth appeared to be stable, and stopped the car. They climbed out and walked back, stopping at a safe distance, to watch as the churning water ate away at the foundation and the road crumbled and sank like a child’s sandcastle, severing their connection to the rest of the world.
Mountain Vista had become, in every practical way, an island. Surrounded on three sides by water and backed, on the fourth, by a high, sparsely populated ridge separating it from the Hood Canal. Riley stood in darkness, next to a man she’d only just met, and acknowledged that they were now trapped on a virtual island.
And so, in all likelihood, was the killer.
CHAPTER 38
BY THE TIME THEY RETURNED to the Newcombe house, Nate was feeling the ragged end of a very long day. The sky had closed in with an inky heaviness, staining his mood and draining his energy. He was exhausted, but he felt the weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders and knew there was work yet to be done before he could rest. He worried about Sammi and Marilyn, tortured by the thought that they might be holed up somewhere like this, with a pedophile. He tried calling again, but got nowhere. He spent some time fooling with the radio before he followed Riley into the Newcombe house.
The neighbors were still assembled, candles lit against the darkness, conversing in muted tones, fretful and reluctant to leave the comfort of each other’s company. Nate had several concerns and he addressed them with Frank and Millie. Arrangements made, he stood beside the wet bar and whistled for attention. He thanked everyone for supporting each other and watched them respond to the authority in his voice, settling in to receive instruction.
“You all understand we have an extraordinary situation here. We’re isolated, for the time being,
without any practical means of communicating or traveling outside this vicinity. I have no official jurisdiction here, but I am a sworn officer of the law. As long as I find myself in the same boat, I’m offering to help however I can. I’ve spoken with the Newcombes and they’ve agreed to let us move into the clubhouse for the next few days until things straighten out and get back to normal.”
“Why can’t we just go home?” Marie asked and some heads in the group nodded.
“You’re certainly free to do so,” Nate answered. “I only offer this as an option, but let me expound some of my reasons for suggesting it. The clubhouse is well supplied and is large enough to house a substantial group, on a temporary basis. There are cots and couches, a big kitchen and dining room and an excellent chef who’s indicated his willingness to help out. The industrial-style doors and windows will make a better seal against the ash, should that become a problem.
“Power outages will continue to be an issue and there’s a good generator at the clubhouse, and gas to run it. There are bathrooms with showers. We’d have each other’s company and support and that’s no small thing in a situation like this. Mr. Mayhew is your resident geologist and he witnessed the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980. He heartily endorses the notion that we stick together.”
Harper gave an emphatic nod and kept his eyes fastened on Nate, waiting for him to continue. Nate had debated with himself whether to mention the killings and decided it would be best to get the subject out in the open. Besides, he could lead with a bit of good news.
“I was able to reach dispatch for the Mason County Sheriff’s department and they’re sending some deputies our way, which brings me to the most compelling reason why I think we should band together and stay in a group. Riley and I went out to Rico Ferguson’s this evening. I’m sorry to tell you that he and two of his staff have been murdered.”
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 11
