The undergrowth thinned as we rounded a corner and there in front of us sat Vira. She looked back from the muddy shore of an outsized and desolate-looking pond—near both an overturned rowboat and wheelbarrow—and patted her paw at the red muck beneath her feet.
What had begun as a partly sunny Friday morning had turned overcast—cloudy and gray. The pond appeared a pea soup of algae and blanketweed. And though the water appeared calm—its surface a smooth glass with scarcely a ripple—I found it to be uninviting and bleak. I knew well what Vira’s pawing at the shoreline indicated.
“The missing travelers,” Kippy said more to the thicket than to me. “Sometimes the cars appear later, but the travelers never do.”
Vira walked a short distance—a little more than a yard—sat down, and again pawed at the mud. She stood once more, walked a few more feet, and pawed the ground. She looked back at us, walked into a slip of grass surrounding the water’s edge and pawed again.
“Yes, Vira,” I said. “Good girl. We know, Vira. We know.”
“This is where he brought them.” Kippy walked over to Vira, knelt down in the weeds, and gave our dog a hug. “Maybe they were still alive, maybe they were already dead, but this is where Landvik brought them.”
I headed toward the overturned wheelbarrow and rowboat.
“Don’t touch a thing, Mace,” Kippy said. “It’s a crime scene.”
“The sheets of plywood over the muddy parts of the trail were for the wheelbarrow.” I glanced around. “And he’s got a bunch of those retaining wall caps out here by the boat.”
“Bodies always rise, Mace,” Kippy added. “The decay produces gas, they bloat up like balloons, and float to the surface.”
“So he weighed them down.”
“I imagine he did, but I suspect Landvik did a bit more. I think he punctured their chest cavities and their entrails with a knife in order to keep them down there … at the bottom,” Kippy said and nodded toward the center of the pond. She turned to me. “That’s why Vira kept tapping along the shoreline. He did so many, Mace. And it’s in the soil.”
“Jesus Christ.” I looked across the patch of water. “Those augers in his shed weren’t for ice fishing. They were so he could keep all this up year-round.”
Kippy stood. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I didn’t argue.
Kippy did five minutes with Detective Hanson on the trail back, making the detective realize what we’d found was a game-changer. He and Marr planned to dive straight into a car, siren it to Batavia, and work their magic to get a diver onsite as soon as possible. She did another minute with her partner, telling Officer Wabiszewski to keep his eyes trained on Landvik’s BMW.
A few minutes after that we were at the corner of Landvik’s property. We cut diagonally across his backyard, rounded the side of his house, and watched as an SUV with IDOT plates pulled down the gravel driveway and parked next to Kippy’s Malibu.
Bernt Landvik stepped from the vehicle.
CHAPTER 60
Vira snarled. I stooped down, put a hand on the back of her neck, and connected the leash to her collar. “Shh, girl. We know.”
Bernt Landvik stood on the cement walkway leading up to the foot of his porch. He held a laptop sleeve under one arm and keys in his other hand. Nonthreatening body language, though he did look surprised to see us.
“Is Jake home?” he said, turned, and began stepping toward his porch.
“Stop right there,” Kippy said, cop’s voice, no bullshit. She popped the Velcro on her olive green waist pack and slipped a hand inside.
Landvik turned back. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Hanson and Marr are on their way,” Kippy said. “And we’re all going to wait right here until they arrive.”
“Why?” Landvik looked confused, startled at the thinly veiled hostility. “What have you done with Jake?”
“Why would Saunders be here?” Kippy replied.
“Because it’s his house,” Landvik said matter-of-factly. “Jake’s been renting it from me for over a year.”
“Has he now?” Kippy’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Jake called in this morning to request an emergency leave of absence. He said his father was ill and he’s flying out in the afternoon.” Landvik tread backward toward the porch.
“Not another step,” Kippy said, gun out now, pointed at center mass. Kippy’s off-duty was a subcompact—a Baby Glock, she’d informed me after I riddled her with questions about her trendsetting fanny pack at the coffee shop.
Landvik’s jaw dropped. He glanced from me to my visibly seething golden retriever and back to Kippy. “You’re going to shoot me because I came here to ask Jake a question?”
“Not another step,” Kippy repeated.
“I’ve got cameras everywhere, like we do at the rest stops.” Landvik shrugged. “It’ll be the world’s shortest trial before you get life in prison.”
That answered the question I’d been wondering; why would Landvik drive all the way downtown for work, and then turn around and race back in a different car?
Because we’d triggered the cameras.
“Look, I know why you’re here,” Landvik said. “And thank God the real detectives are on their way. They need to see the video feed. And so should you.”
“What video?” I asked.
“Egg River.” Landvik looked about the yard and said, “Jake’s dealing with a family emergency so I spot-checked his section of the video feed right after I sent out those texts this morning. And guess what? There’s a jump in time, more than a missing hour of footage at the Egg River facility. I damn near had a heart attack. No way could Jake miss something like that, so I came out to talk to him about it and find you guys here … and now you’re pointing a gun at my chest.”
“Get on your stomach with your hands on the back of your head,” Kippy ordered.
“Sorry, dear, but I need to get inside and find out if Jake’s okay.” Landvik looked up at the decorative base of his porch light and said, “Officer Kippy Gimm has pulled a gun on me. She’s threatened to shoot me twice so far,” he glanced our way, “no, make that three times. As you can see I’m unarmed. Officer Gimm is on my rental property—she has not been invited, and she’s here without a warrant or supervision.” Landvik turned to Kippy. “The system has superb audio; at your hearing it’ll be like a voice reaching out from the grave.”
“Cute,” Kippy replied. “I imagine it’ll also show Jake Saunders coming over last night but never leaving.”
Landvik said nothing.
The Mexican standoff continued. Vira snarled from the grass, her eyes never leaving the man from the Illinois Department of Transportation.
“Toss the keys on the porch and stand against the side railing,” Kippy said finally. “Mr. Reid will be opening the door.”
“As you wish.” Landvik sighed and flipped the keys onto the porch deck.
He shuffled backward against the handrail—a right foot on the first step, his left on the cement walkway—looking awkward with hands midway in the air and a laptop under an armpit. Kippy matched him move-for-move, a line dance of Landvik backing up while Kippy swung around, Baby Glock continually aimed at the IDOT executive’s center mass. There’d be no chance of Kippy missing at this close a range, yet she was far enough back from Landvik that he couldn’t strike out.
Vira and I detoured around Kippy’s back as she kept her focus centered on Landvik. We arrived at the steps from her left side. Vira growled at Landvik. I clutched her leash tight as we took the three steps up to the porch deck.
“Stay, Vira,” I said, wrapping her leash once around the handrail.
I kept my eyes on Landvik as I knelt to pick up the keys, then turned to the door, and rang the bell a string of times as if Jake Saunders had just gotten out of the bathtub and dried himself off since Kippy had last manhandled the front entrance.
Then I began sorting through the key chain.
“It’s the on
e that’s not a car key,” Landvik offered.
Kippy asked him, “Any chance of you shutting up?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Turns out I’m a Chatty Cathy when someone has a gun pointed my way.”
I popped the key in the dead bolt and gave it a twist, then did the same thing in the doorknob, swung the door inward several inches and peeked inside. The entryway had a staircase heading upstairs, but otherwise took a left into a fair-sized living room. No lights were on, no curtains open—the house was dark.
“Stay here,” I said, not wanting to leave Kippy, but I hadn’t tied off Vira’s leash and knew she’d have Kippy’s back if Landvik so much as blinked twice.
Plus, I knew I wouldn’t be long.
“Jake,” I said aloud, stepping into the house and borrowing Kippy’s no-nonsense cop voice. “Jake Saunders, are you in the house?” I looked up the staircase and called, “Jake Saunders, the police are here and have arrested Bernt Landvik.”
I heard a snort from behind, but ignored Landvik. Instead, I listened to the house for any telling creaks or steps or cries for help.
The house was dead.
I stepped into the murk of the living room before realizing I’d forgotten to flick on the light switch in the entryway. I crossed over into the dining room where a dejected wooden table and six lonely chairs lay in wait for a dinner party that would likely never arrive. I crossed over to the wall behind the dining table and fumbled with some cords before finding a thin chain that slid open the curtains, allowing natural light to flow in through the sliding glass door.
I stared out onto Bernt Landvik’s second-story deck and off to the far corner of the man’s property where the pathway to his pond commenced its many twists and turns. I then glanced about the main floor and realized why the dining room had seemed so abandoned. Opposite the table was a full-sized kitchen containing a spacious island and enough stools to seat a dozen—likely a remodel had been done somewhere along the ownership line.
Unlike Nicky Champine’s rambler, Landvik’s farmhouse was relatively modern … and amazingly tidy. There were no dishes stacked in the sink, no mail—opened or unopened—lying about, no forgotten mugs of coffee or empty cans of Dr Pepper waiting to be cleaned or tossed. His kitchen countertops glittered as though recently wiped. I even caught a whiff of cleansers.
Bernt Landvik ran a tight ship, perhaps obsessively so.
I looked at my watch as I passed back through the living room. I figured that Detectives Hanson and Marr would be at least ten minutes out, maybe more, hopefully less.
“There’s nobody here,” I told Kippy upon my return to the front porch.
CHAPTER 61
The bitch cop was hardcore—kill or be killed type. If he twitched funny or took a step in her direction, he’d be a dead man. The golden retriever was the secondary threat, with its incessant snarl in his direction—guttural—wishing her master hadn’t forbidden her from attacking, from ripping him to shreds. Everyman was happy she stayed put at the top of the porch steps. Everyman was unhappy that the Dog Man had only looped the leash around the handrail instead of tying it off.
As for the Dog Man, Mason Reid was the wild card. Dog Man Reid had certainly proved brighter and more daring than his lot in life would suggest. Nevertheless, Dog Man was no soldier, no cop … and no killer. He had no weapon and, without his dogs, Reid would be dead long before he knew what hit him.
Everyman thought he had them beat until they rounded the corner of his farmhouse. It sure would have been nice to have his SIG 1911 on hand, but his new plan—Plan A—was to get the rifle from the cabinet in the basement and then lay in wait for the three of them as they strode out from the wetlands. He’d let them cross halfway through his backyard before putting a round through the center of the bitch cop’s forehead—payback for all the trouble she’d caused him. Then he’d take out the golden retriever and, in conclusion, he’d shoot Mason Reid in the face. After that he’d get his new ID packet from the rec room wall, hit a nearby branch of Bernt Landvik’s bank for the saving and checking withdrawals, and then take the IDOT Subaru a hundred miles in whatever direction before dumping it.
But as he gunned the Forester down the county road leading to his gravel driveway, he’d peeked at his iPhone and saw the three of them stepping out from the woods.
Fuck.
Plan B—his original plan—was to bullshit his way into the farmhouse. Everyman knew the layout of the rooms; their individual twists and turns … he knew their blind spots, he knew where weapons lay. If he could get the two of them into the house—optimistically without the mutt—he’d kill them quickly. He had to, what with a cavalry of detectives and divers and the lady cop’s muscle-bound partner on their way, he wouldn’t have a moment to spare.
He knew he should be terrified, but instead Everyman felt … exhilarated.
“My arm’s fallen asleep,” Everyman told the bitch cop. “I fear I may drop my laptop.”
“Tough shit,” Officer Gimm replied.
Everyman looked forward to killing her.
CHAPTER 62
“You didn’t check the entire house,” Landvik said. “Jake may have hurt himself in one of the upstairs rooms?”
“He never shuts up,” Kippy said to me. “Plus, I’m an idiot.”
“Why?”
“As soon as we get him into a chair, you call 911,” she replied. “Get Batavia PD out here ASAP, no more screwing around.”
“Excellent idea,” Landvik said and smiled. “Chief Eullen and I go way back.”
“Let’s have you back up into the living room, Mace,” Kippy instructed. “Stay out of his reach, but be ready to kick him in the nuts if he tries anything.”
“That’s hardly sporting,” Landvik replied.
I backed up until I was a few steps from the dining room table and watched as Kippy marched Landvik inside the home he claimed was now rented by Jake Saunders. I realized a mistake had been made as soon as the screen door slammed shut behind Kippy.
Vira had been stranded outside.
“I’m going to put the laptop on the table and then I’m going to sit down,” Landvik said as he crossed the living room toward the dining room table. “Okay?”
Kippy made no comment but her Baby Glock spoke volumes as it tracked his every movement.
Bernt Landvik studied Kippy as he slowly pulled the laptop sleeve from under his armpit and placed it on the dining room table. He shook his arm as though to wake it from hibernation and then, like a professor about to begin the morning lecture, began unzipping the sleeve.
“Mace,” Kippy shouted.
Immediately I knew what she meant.
Danger—do not let Landvik reach into the case.
The second mistake was on me … because that’s when I crossed between them, stretching forward to take hold of the laptop case. I was only stuck between the two of them for an instant—blocking Kippy’s line of sight—but it was all Landvik needed, all Landvik had been waiting for.
He threw himself into the kitchen.
CHAPTER 63
Everyman kept a poker face as his wish came true. They’d left Dog Man Reid’s pissed-off golden retriever on the ineffectual side of the screen door. And unless the damned mutt evolved opposable thumbs in the next few minutes, there was only one real threat left … the bitch with the gun. He’d have to work fast because at any second Reid would scurry back to the front door, let his dog in, and restore the imbalance of power.
Businesslike, Everyman walked to the dining room table. At the table he made a big production out of laying down the laptop, shaking the cobwebs out of his left arm—a pinched nerve or something—and then began unzipping the laptop’s case as though it were the most natural thing for him to do, just another day at the office. He deserved an Oscar nomination for his performance, at least a Golden Globe.
As theater people say, Everyman was “in the moment.”
He’d already glanced in the kitchen and there it was, as tho
ugh it were waiting for him, the handle of the cast-iron skillet—the 12.5-inch flat-bottom cast-iron skillet that weighed damn near ten pounds—jutted out over the oven, almost begging to be used. And use it he would. He’d scrubbed it with bleach the night before, even tossed it in the dishwasher for good measure.
The skillet had certainly done the trick with Jake Saunders. The lady cop would expect Bernt Landvik to run and come rushing after him. But running was the last thing on Everyman’s mind.
As he began unzipping the laptop sleeve, the cop went ballistic, as expected, and, as expected, Dog Man Reid reached for the laptop case, his body crossing in front of Officer Gimm … and Everyman dived into the kitchen … he dived for the cast-iron skillet.
CHAPTER 64
Kippy lunged for the corner, spinning around the kitchen wall blocking her from Landvik. He grabbed at a skillet off the oven, swung it in a blur of motion, forehanding it like a tennis pro. Her Baby Glock swept across the kitchen, beginning to center on Landvik … but Kippy was too late.
And Bernt Landvik won.
The flat bottom of the skillet smashed Kippy’s two-handed grip into the refrigerator with a bone-crunching thud. The Glock dropped to the floor and Landvik was on her, kicking the pistol into the dining room, jabbing her hard in the chest with a fist, sending her ass over teakettle.
I stepped in front of the man, threw a right hook that rolled off his forehead, a left fist that scraped his cheek. Something snapped inside me and this fucker was going to pay for what he’d just done to Kippy. Shards of pain shot through my left side as though my recent wound had been poked with a cattle prod, but I’d worry about that later. My shoulder blocked Landvik from leveraging the skillet, which he surrendered to the floor. I didn’t know much about boxing, but had grown up with two brothers—had gone at it with each of them while growing up—and that had to count for something.
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