A Dark Lure (2 page)

It’s your duty, boy, your goddamn duty to track down a gut-shot deer. You don’t stop, you hear . . . you don’t goddamn stop tracking until you’ve bagged the prey you’ve hurt. You
make
it yours. You take ownership. You don’t let this happen again, you hear? If you can’t fucking get a clean shot, you don’t squeeze that trigger at last light.

A foghorn sounded, jerking Eugene’s mind back to the present. Mist from the gray waters of the Burrard swirled up in thick, tattered swaths, billowing along the brick and cobbled streets of the old quarter. He shrugged a little deeper into his jacket.

Your goddamn duty, you hear . . .

To finish the kill.

Blood boomed in Gage Burton’s ears as he stared at his computer screen, waiting for a response.

Could it be? After all these years, he’d finally got a strike?

Seconds ticked by. Then minutes.

Nothing more came through.

But he’d felt it. A nibble on his line, and then it was gone. No further response to his e-mail.

He typed again, hands trembling.

If you’re interested in talking further, please do e-mail me back, no obligations. All I need to know is that my child has found a warm and loving home.

He hit “Send.” Waited. More minutes ticked by.

Nothing.

Perspiration beaded along his lip, and Gage dragged his palm over his balding head. He glanced at the papers scattered across his desk—newspaper clippings from the
Watt Lake Gazette,
articles run twelve years ago. Old crime scene photos showing clinical images of exhumed skeletal remains, desecrated bodies. Rotting skulls. Missing tongues. Gaping eye sockets. There were photos of steel grappling hooks in the meat shed where the Watt Lake Killer had hung, gutted, flayed, and bled out his victims like slaughtered deer. Photos of the shed where he’d done his butchering, images of a generator-powered freezer that had revealed unspeakable horrors. Pictures of the shack beside the shed where he’d shackled and roped his victims alive, where he sexually abused and fed and kept them over the winter before setting them out for a spring hunt.

Gage drew closer a photograph of the Watt Lake Killer’s last victim.

Sarah Jane Baker.

Twenty-five at the time. The young wife of Ethan Baker, daughter of prominent Watt Lake pastor Jim Vanlorne. Sarah Baker had been taken, as the others had, in the hours preceding the first big storm of the season. She, like the others, had been chained and overwintered in that shack. And then, at the sound of returning geese, he’d armed her and released her into the wild.

For there is no hunting like the hunting of an armed man . . .

These words, Sarah had revealed in interviews with police later, the killer had whispered into her ear. He’d quoted to her from the works of Thoreau, Hemingway, Blackwood.

A well-read man.

Unlike Sebastian George, the man who’d been caught, charged, tried, and convicted for the murders.

Despite all the evidence, Gage could not believe they’d put away the right guy. He’d been hunting him ever since, in his spare time, nights. A secret obsession. Because he’d made a pledge all those years ago. A pledge for justice.

He’d been keeping tabs on Sarah Baker ever since. It was his belief that the real Watt Lake Killer might one day return for her.

Gage blew out a chestful of air. Still no response to his e-mail. He opened up several of the other accounts he’d created and checked to see if there were any fresh hits on his posts there.

Zip.

He dragged his hand down over his mouth, doubt and fear braiding with dark excitement. He could
sense
him out there, on the other end of a computer. The killer. Listening, waiting.

The door opened suddenly. “Dad?”

He jumped. Adrenaline slammed. He swore, getting up fast, scrabbling to gather up the newspaper clippings, crime scene photos, notes.

“Tori, dammit. Knock. How many times have I told you!”

His daughter’s gaze shot to the papers clutched in his hands, then to the computer, then settled on his face. “What are you doing?”

“What do you want, Tori?”

She glowered at him in silence for a beat.

“It’s Aunt Louise,” she snapped. “On the phone. Didn’t you hear it ring?”

Accusation. Anger. So much negativity since Melody died. Since Tori lost her mother and he’d lost his wife, his best friend, his crutch. His reason for life itself.

“Thank you,” he said, holding her gaze, waiting for her to leave.

She exited and slammed the door. Footfalls stomped off down the passage.

Jesus, he hadn’t even heard the phone
. . .
Sharpen up. Focus
. He picked up the phone, cleared his throat.

“Lou, hey. How’re you doing?”

“More important, how are
you
?” His older sister’s voice was all businesslike, par for the course. “I thought I’d hear from you this week, Gage, after your last appointment. How did it go? Can they operate?”

They couldn’t. Both Melody and he had already known this before her accident.

He glanced out the window. Darkness was full. So early at this time of year. Rain squiggled in watery worms against the black reflection of the windows.

“I blew the appointment off,” he said.

Silence hung for a few beats.

“I was busy, Lou.”

“Shit,” she said softly. Then came a muffled sound, as though she’d covered the receiver with her hand in order to quietly blow her nose. “You have an obligation to Tori, you know, to stay on top of this.”

“I have plenty of time—”

“How much, exactly? Something could go wrong any day. You don’t know how it’s going to manifest. You’ve already been forced into early retirement because of
. . .
” Her voice faded, falling just short of mentioning his blackouts at work.

The few mistakes he’d made during a key homicide investigation had raised red flags with brass. He’d lost periods of time, found himself in places without knowing how he’d gotten there. He’d physically laid into a punk-ass drug dealer in the interrogation room last week and hadn’t even known what triggered him, or what he’d been doing. One minute he’d been present, the next he was being yanked off the scumbag. Questions about his health had been formally raised. Next came the issue of early retirement versus long-term disability leave. This goddamn illness was robbing him of his life even as he walked.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you need to manage this, because if Tori—”

“I will. I just have some things I need to take care of first.”

“Like what?”

“Loose ends.”

His sister sighed heavily. “And how is Tori doing? You’ve told her, right?”

“Not yet.”

“Gage—”

“Enough. I’m her father, and I know that she’s not ready. Especially since the incident at school—”

“What
incident?”

“She had a bit of a dustup with another student, set fire to the kid’s books in the school cafeteria.”

“I’m packing a bag right now. I’m heading to the airport for a standby flight. Ben and the kids can manage without me for a while. At least I can be there for Tori, when you do tell her.”

“No.”

“She’ll also need time to assimilate the fact that she’s going to have to come and live with us. I don’t think—”

“Louise, stop. I know you mean well. I know you’ll be there for Tori when it happens. But right now I’m as strong as a bloody ox. I’m clearheaded. I’m
fine.
I’ve got my big retirement bash to attend night after tomorrow, and I’ve taken her out of school. We’re going to—”

“You’ve
what
?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was either that or risk some other mishap and an expulsion. Besides, I want to spend some time with her. I want to go away for the Thanksgiving weekend, make some good, final memories with her, different memories,” he said softly. “She’s suffering from her own guilt over Melody’s accident. We need to work through that before I tell her what’s going on with me. Just give us a little while, okay?”

This time he heard his sister clearly sniffling and blowing her nose. It sliced him. Lou, his capable, businesslike older sister, was crying.

“I don’t understand life, either, Lou,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why we get dealt the cards we do. Tori got a bad hand. The bloody joker in the pack. But that’s the one she’s got, and I need to fix some things, tie up those loose ends for her before I go.”

Silence—a long, long beat of silence.

Gage stared at his sorry-ass reflection in the black, rain-streaked window. Outwardly he still looked strong, muscles bulked from hours in the gym, fit from running long distance. This beautiful house in Kits, the view of the ocean, they’d thought they had it all. Great kid. Decent careers. Love. Respect. A perfect and delicate glass ball.

And then it shattered.

He’d gotten the diagnosis. Melody had made it seem manageable. She was going to be there with him every step of the way. And once it was over, Tori would still have had a mother. Their daughter would not have to be alone.

Then Melody went and skied into a tree well on Cypress Mountain after the last big spring snowstorm. She’d suffocated, trapped upside down under mounds of pristine white powder while Tori had struggled to yank her mother out by her skis and boots. When Melody died she’d taken with her all the light and heart and energy in their lives. Without Melody
. . .
it was like removing the battery from an appliance. Just didn’t work. Both he and Tori had started to crumble under the confusion. The rage. The unjustness. The utter gaping maw of loss.

“Give us until after Thanksgiving,” he said quietly.

His sister inhaled shakily. “So where are you going for this trip?”

“Not far. A few hours’ drive into the interior.”

“Call me when you get back, okay?”

“You got it.” He said good-bye. But as he was about to hang up, he heard a soft click. As if a phone receiver in another part of the house had been set gently into its cradle.

Gage flung open his office door and marched down the passage.

“Tori!” He opened her bedroom door. No sign of her. “Tori? Where are you?”

He heard the water in the shower. He saw the phone receiver in its cradle. Relief punched through him. For a gut-sickening moment he’d thought she’d heard them on the phone.

Eugene climbed into his truck cab. A set of Washington State plates lay upside down on the floor of the passenger side. It was safer to keep the plates than trash them where someone might find them.

He fired the ignition and flicked on the windshield wipers. Pulling out into the stream of traffic, wipers clacking, he headed over the congested Lions Gate Bridge, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Once clear of the bridge he aimed for the ramp onto the highway that would take him north into the mountains.

A
thump thump thump
sounded in the camper on the back of the truck. His blood pressure spiked. Irritability crawled over his skin. The drugs he’d given her were wearing off earlier and earlier now as she built tolerance.

He glanced up into his rearview mirror, which ordinarily afforded him a glimpse through the cab’s rear window into the camper via another small window. But it was dark, rain squiggling down the pane, refracting light from traffic. She was securely bound but must have found a way to kick at the boards with her heels.

Thump thump . . . thumpy-thump
came the noise again
.
This was one fucking determined piece of baggage he’d been carting around.

There always came a time when the fresh meat grew stale. She hadn’t even been fresh to begin with. Mustn’t rush with the disposal, though. He needed to do this right. He needed to send a very special message.

. . . It’s not a game until both sides know they’re playing . . .

A smile curved his lips as it suddenly occurred to him exactly what he would do, how he’d gradually make Sarah Baker aware that she was once again prey, being hunted. He moistened his lips, recalling the bittersweet, salty taste of raw fear on Sarah Baker’s skin.