***
26
Maietta drove slowly, her headlights off as she let her eyes adjust to the faint morning light that glowed across the eastern horizon.
She had waited a long time through the darkest hours of the night, and her back and legs ached from not moving for such a prolonged period, but now she would get her answers.
She had followed Griffin the previous evening, tracking him from a bar on Great Fall’s west side where he drank alone for a couple of hours. With no sidearm, Griffin had no fear of being hauled before a committee for being intoxicated in possession of his weapon, but to her surprise Maietta had seen him consume little alcohol and only a couple of cigarettes.
Griffin had gotten into his car late in the evening, and for a moment Maietta had allowed the hope to blossom that he would simply drive home and get his head down. That hope had evaporated when Griffin had driven out of town, heading through Sun Prairie and out onto the lonely plains.
Maietta, haunted by the notion that Griffin might take his own life, had followed. Griffin had pulled off the main road and down an old track toward Muddy Creek, and Maietta had parked up in the cover of ancient trees bent over by the annual chinook winds, and waited through the long hours of the night.
Despite an overwhelming desire to follow Griffin down the track she had resisted, and experienced an intense relief when hours later he had driven back out and turned toward Great Falls, his tail lights vanishing into the gloomy dawn.
Maietta started her car’s engine, and pulled into the track.
The trees were black against the sky, the track narrow and winding as it descended toward the river. Broken scrub sprouted from the gravel and grit beneath her car’s wheels, signs of how long ago this lonely spot had been abandoned. Few cars came out here, and often in the winter the deep snows effectively not only shielded the track from view but actually prevented any kind of access for months at a time.
Maietta eased the car down the winding track, her foot off the throttle to silence her approach, the other holding the car back on the brakes. The light was just enough to make out the woods thinning ahead, opening out onto a small beach where once, back in the day, cotton boats had unloaded onto wharfs and smaller vessels with shallower hulls to take the goods into the city for sale in the markets.
Maietta’s car rolled softly out of the woods as she pulled up and killed the engine.
It was utterly silent out here. The city was but a glow against low, torn clouds that hurried across the cold dawn sky as though fleeing the sunrise. Maietta climbed out of the car, pulled the collar of her jacket up close about her neck as she quietly shut the door. The light was brighter now. She could see the old mill further down the river, the rickety and collapsing wharfs and jetties, and the old farmhouse entombed in shadows before her.
Maietta walked across the gravelly surface of the embankment toward the farmhouse, her eyes seeking movement. She saw nothing and heard nothing, save for the lonely rumble of the wind as it gusted across the river and whipped the surface into tiny ripples.
She stopped near the farmhouse, and squatted down as something in the dust at her feet caught her eye.
The dust was rippled with geometric patterns, the tell–tale mark of where a vehicle had pulled in. Maietta glanced up at the sky. It had been raining on and off for several days, the weather blustery, changeable. The tracks must have been made recently, at most in the last twenty four hours.
Maietta’s practiced eye followed the tracks. Griffin’s vehicle had pulled into the farmstead and swung around, pulled up near the edge of the treeline to face out, back toward the track from which it had come. Maietta glanced at her own car, facing her with its trunk to the track.
She looked alongside the tracks, and saw where a shallow depression had been formed as dust and gravel had been piled up. The same vehicle, making the same manoeuvre over and over again. Many visits, over some period of time, had left a depression that the rain could not quite conceal.
Maietta moved across to where the vehicle had often pulled up, and squatted down again. There, ground into the dust at her feet, were several cigarette butts.
Maietta got up, drew her service pistol, and held it before her as she eased her way toward the farmstead. The entrance was wide open, a black maw beckoning her inside to discover whatever horrors lay in wait.
She eased her way inside, the cold gripping her as though in an embrace, the farmstead a crucible to loss and pain. The floorboards beneath her feet creaked, their timbers creased and turned up at the edges. The wind from outside whispered through empty rooms as she made her way through to what had once been a kitchen, stripped bare now but for aged cabinets and the rusting hulk of an old gas stove.
Maietta lowered her pistol as she saw strips of old police tape fluttering in the wind, and on a doorframe that led into what had once been a living room was a bright blue ring of paint circling a chunk of wood now missing from the frame where hinges had once been screwed in place.
The metal off of which Detective Scott Griffin’s bullet had ricocheted.
Below the cabinets on the opposite side of the kitchen were more blue rings, this time signifying the spilt blood of Amy Wheeler that still stained the aged tiles
*
Kathryn awoke early in the morning, the incessant beeping of her alarm clock violating her slumber as her eyes opened to see the pale dawn breaching the bedroom curtains. But she did not groan, or mumble or curse. She shook herself awake and hurled off the duvet.
There would be little time for her to do what she now knew she must.
Visions of the previous night’s revelations flashed repeatedly through her mind, the dawning knowledge that Stephen was not just seeing another woman but was in fact married to her, and that he was far from who she had believed him to be. Kathryn knew, somehow, instinctively, that she needed to get as far away from Stephen as she could, and the memory of the strange fluid she had found in his briefcase bothered her immensely.
Kathryn drove to the precinct station and searched for Detective Griffin. She had been tempted to call in when she had got home the previous night and get Griffin’s number from the night staff, but had resisted the temptation. They might not understand and probably would not give out a personal cell number to a caller anyway. Besides, she and Griffin were not on the best of terms and the chances of him returning any of her calls outside of work hours seemed remote at best.
‘Have you seen detective Griffin?’ she asked the desk sergeant as she walked in.
‘Not in yet,’ he replied gruffly.
Kathryn was about to concoct a reply when the operations room door opened and Maietta strode through and beckoned for Kathryn to follow her.
‘Where’s Griffin?’ Kathryn asked as she followed Maietta into the operations room.
‘Called in sick.’
‘But he’s up to his neck in the McKenzie case, he needs to be here, as much for himself as anybody else. I need to talk to him.’
‘Yeah, because that went well for you both last time.’
Kathryn frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Maietta whirled to face Kathryn, who flinched in anticipation of a flying fist. The detective glared at her for a moment and then pointed at Olsen’s office door.
‘A word,’ she said.
Kathryn obeyed in silence and walked into Olsen’s office. Maietta strode in behind her and kicked the door shut.
‘What do you want?’ Kathryn asked.
‘You’re a psychologist,’ Maietta said, ‘you can figure out what drives people, right?’
‘It’s what I’m paid for.’
Kathryn’s face was tinged with a hint of anxiety that she could feel burning on her skin. She was reminded of her school days, when she would see the same look as Maietta’s in the eyes of other pupils just before she was punched by them.
‘Griffin keeps doing a vanishing act,’ Maietta said.
Kathryn’s anxiety shifted to her guts as
she realised both that she was not under threat and that Maietta was sharing an important piece of information.
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maietta said, ‘I’m not his mother. Only noticed it in the last couple of days.’
‘Have you followed him?’
Maietta nodded, not making eye contact with Kathryn.
‘And?’ Kathryn pressed.
Maietta sighed, swatted some of her long hair out of her face with one hand. ‘Heading out of town to an old farmstead down by the river.’
Kathryn felt herself stiffen, not really wanting to hear the answer to her next question. ‘What’s there?’
‘What do you think? You read his file.’
‘It’s the site of the shoot–out, isn’t it?’
Maietta’s shoulders slumped as though a weight had been removed from them. ‘He’s even got a sleeping bag down there. Shit, he’s gone crackers and I don’t know what to do about it. I followed him, waited him out for a few hours until he left early this morning. I guess he goes home to eat, change or whatever.’
‘You want me to go down there and talk to him?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Hell, no! He’d spot you a mile away and probably shoot you on sight if he’s armed. Jesus, I want you to figure out why he’s doing what he’s doing. You’re so damned smart? Put me one step ahead of him.’
Kathryn stared at Maietta for a few moments, then chose her words with care. ‘He’s not crackers, he’s trying to be close to Amy Wheeler. It’s a coping mechanism, okay? He’s just trying to find a way through all of this.’
Maietta shook her head. ‘I reported to Olsen that I was afraid Griffin would attempt to take his own life.’
‘And now you think if you fill Olsen in on the rest, you’ll be the reporting officer and Griffin will find out about everything.’
‘Shit,’ Maietta shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. ‘I shoulda known better.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Kathryn said. ‘You’re only looking out for him, just like he would for you.’
‘Thing is, what the hell do I do about it now? I can’t tell anybody about it, but he’s gotta stop or sooner or later it’ll all get out. Without his badge and his job he’ll be in freefall. He’s already drinking and smoking again.’
Kathryn looked at her watch as though pressed for time.
‘You got somewhere you’d rather be?’ Maietta challenged.
Kathryn reached into her handbag and pulled out a notebook and pen.
‘I need an address from you,’ she said. ‘You know how often he goes down there?’
‘Anytime he’s not working I guess. You going to help me with this or not?’
‘I don’t think I can help,’ Kathryn said, ‘and neither can you.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? He needs help, that’s your job and I want to know what you’re going to do about it?’ Maietta demanded.
‘What should have been done a long time ago,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I’m done with procedure. I’ll head out now, and meet up with you later at the site, okay?’
***
27
Sheila McKenzie lay in silence, her body tense and exhausted as she watched a kaleidoscope of bizarre colours and images twist in nauseous whorls before her closed eyes, her brain playing tricks on her as she awaited the unknowable.
To her dismay her addled brain had begun blocking out the distant sounds of activity outside her prison, the faint and irregular movements too vague to maintain focus on, and the vibrations through the reclining chair were also becoming harder to detect.
Sheila wriggled her head wearily from side to side, as she had done for many hours, in the hope of somehow loosening the blindfold, but it was useless. The tightness of her bonds was excruciating after so many long and lonely hours, and her head throbbed. She knew, somehow, deep inside that she could not take much more of the isolation, the silence, the loneliness and the pain, and feared the sleep would be the end of her.
Even as the thought crossed her mind to just let herself go, the lights before her eyes flared with vivid colour and she heard the sound of the doors being raised. A waft of cool clean air from outside, scented with fresh rain and snow, drifted across her as sweet as anything that she could ever recall smelling. A dull thud, and the blissful odour vanished.
Sheila stiffened, sensed movement around her, and once again the ritual began. Her captor cleaned Sheila, the violation of her body now a simple matter of fact requirement of her captivity. Sheila closed her mind to the activity, but after a few moments she realised that she was missing an opportunity to learn something.
She inhaled deeply.
Too late. Her captor moved behind her as one hand tugged the gag free from her Sheila’s mouth and then removed the plugs from her ears.
‘Sit still,’ the deep–throat voice growled, ‘say nothing.’
Water spilled against Sheila’s lips and she ate and drank again, missing not a morsel of the precious food. Her captor mopped the last dribbles of water from Sheila’s chin and blouse, and then stepped away. Sheila said nothing, but secretly she was hoping that her captor would once again stay a while, talk for a bit and provide Sheila with the meagre crumbs of human contact and communication she so desperately craved. Stockholm Syndrome, she realised, the development of an emotional bond of sympathy for the abductor by their victim, but it was too strong to fight off.
To her relief, she heard the chair nearby being dragged into position, heard weight being shifted onto it and the rustle of fabric on skin. Sheila waited as the silence drew out, and eventually she had to break it.
‘My arms and legs,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t feel them.’ Her abductor did not move. The silence drew out longer. ‘Please, could you let me move them, even just a little bit? If I stay here much longer without moving I could end up with deep–vein thrombosis. I won’t be much use to you if I’m dead of a cardiac arrest.’
Her abductor shifted position and moments later Sheila felt the bonds on her legs loosened slightly. She gasped in relief as she was able to move her legs, bending them and stretching them. Her wrists remained fixed in place.
‘My arms now, please,’ Sheila asked.
Her captor refastened Sheila’s ankles in place before loosening the arm restraints. Sheila stretched her arms above her head, heard tendons pop and click as her muscles were tested properly for the first time in days.
A strong hand grabbed one of Sheila’s wrists and yanked it back into place. Moments later the other was likewise rebound and her abductor moved back to the nearby seat.
‘Have you come here to kill me?’ Sheila asked.
‘I wouldn’t have fed you if I were here to kill you,’ the deep–throat voice replied.
‘Maybe it was my last meal?’
‘Maybe it was.’
Sheila shivered. ‘You take the time to clean me and feed me,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you intend to kill me.’
‘What I intend to do to you is my business and it will happen whether you want it to or not.’
A cold sweat tingled across Sheila’s forehead. ‘I can’t stay here forever. People will know that I am missing. My staff at the gallery, my friends. They will report me missing.’
‘It is too late for that.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Your husband has betrayed you.’
Sheila froze in her seat and she momentarily stopped breathing as an image of Dale flashed into the field of her awareness once more.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We told him that you would die if he went to the police,’ the voice growled. ‘He is working with the police now.’
Bastard. Sheila knew enough to be sure that Dale was, to all intents and purposes, one of the most selfish, self–serving, chauvinistic men she had ever met. If it wasn’t about Dale then it wasn’t important at all. Of course, he had only revealed this less palatable s
ide to his personality after they had married. Prior to that fateful day he had been the man she had long dreamed of: professional career man, devoted fiancé, attentive lover.
Within a year of their marriage she had developed the first suspicions that he had been cheating on her. The absences, the feminine scents wafting from him in their house that did not match any perfume she wore. Of course, Dale was a handsome man and spent his working life surrounded by young air hostesses who were hired based on their attractiveness. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and figure out that he was having an affair.
Sheila steeled herself.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she spat angrily.
There was a moment’s pause as Sheila detected a change in the atmosphere, a tension.
‘What do you mean?’
The voice, still deep and growling, was nonetheless robbed of some of its menace by the tiny undercurrent of surprise that rippled through it. Sheila managed to remember not to smile for although she could not see, she knew that she could be seen.
‘The bastard’s having an affair,’ Sheila snapped. ‘I don’t doubt that he’s gone to the police.’
Another long silence before the voice spoke again. ‘How long have you known about this?’
Sheila blinked in surprise. ‘What the hell does that matter?’
There was a brief movement and then the voice roared in her ear with a volume and intensity that sent a lance of fear bolting up and down her body.
‘Answer the fucking question!’
‘I don’t know,’ Sheila cried out in response. ‘Maybe a few months? I suspected something but there was never any real evidence.’
Stone Cold Page 16
