Blue Twilight (23 page)

Damn him for being so clever.

I walked to my vehicle, opened the glove compartment, and handed Terri the yellow tape.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. Got that?” I instructed, so fiercely it came out as a bark.

I was furious that he’d played me this well. Maybe it was losing my mother only two years ago, along with memories of Rebecca and dealing with Santou’s close call, that had me on edge. But if anything happened to Terri, I swore to God that I’d kill Big Daddy.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I haven’t gotten this body of mine into prime physical condition just to screw it up now,” he said, taking the tape from my hand and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Which way should I go?”

I pointed in the direction of town, figuring that should keep him out of trouble. Besides, he could always order a latte once he got there.

I
watched Terri walk away before turning around and heading inland from the cliffs. Even so, I could still smell the salty tang of the Pacific, and feel its windswept spray sneak around to dampen my cheeks.

Soon I’d left the ocean behind, and was hiking among a grove of redwoods that rose like a chapel above me. Their fallen needles softly pillowed my feet. I came upon a fallen log that rose as high as my chest. The wood had been hacked open, exposing an interior so red that it looked like raw beef. Walking over, I placed my hand on the open wound.

Ba bump! Ba bump! Ba bump!

Its core beat like a heart against my palm, coursing up through my arm, until my entire body pulsed in rhythm with its vibration. I pulled away, frightened by what I had felt.

Keep your mind on Simmons and Lily
, I warned myself, not trusting the lure of the forest, which blatantly tried to seduce me.

I caught sight of a faint trail off to my left and my curiosity instantly became aroused. I followed its path and soon found myself surrounded by rhododendrons bearing deep pink blossoms the size of my fist, as well as huckleberry bushes littered with luscious black berries. I carefully watched my step, having spotted redwood sorrel sprouting
underfoot. Its clover-shaped leaves had folded up in the rain like a profusion of miniature parasols.

But it was what lay beyond this verdant wonderland that caused my heart to race. There stood another house. I quickly hurried toward it.

The structure was a one-level cabin. A large shed stood nearby, next to which a car was parked. Something about the vehicle seemed oddly familiar. I wandered over to find that its doors were locked. I glanced inside. Nothing on either the floor or seats set off my suspicions. Then I realized where I’d seen the car before. It was the same navy blue Ford Galaxy that Spencer Barnes had driven—the young man I’d met at Big Daddy’s Body Shop. What in hell was
he
doing here?

I remembered he’d given me a slip of paper with his phone number on it. I dug around in my jeans pocket now and fished it out. Area code 707. Bingo! The code was for Mendocino County.

The discovery made me all the more uneasy. Simmons and Spencer were apparently closer than I had thought. Then again, maybe I was jumping to the wrong conclusion. After all, this place
was
on Big Daddy’s property. So what if Spencer also had a house in Mendocino? It didn’t necessarily mean this cabin was where he lived. Perhaps he’d merely stopped by to give Simmons more sketches for his tattoo clients. Only how could he have known Big Daddy would be here on a work day, when he should have been at his store in San Francisco?

The best way to get answers was to simply keep digging. I decided to start with the shed for one simple reason. It was locked, and unlike the Galaxy, there were no windows through which to peek inside. The only problem was that I’d left my bolt clippers back in the Explorer.

I studied the lock. It wasn’t nearly as large and foreboding
as the one used to secure the entrance gate. With that in mind, I pulled my Leatherman multipurpose tool from its sheath and set to work.

God, I loved this thing! I jimmied the lock in no time. The shed door opened with a submissive groan, as if resigned to spilling its secrets. A feeble ray of light tiptoed in ahead of me.

The first thing to catch my eye was a van much like the one that had run me off the road. The very thought made my blood go cold. I plucked a small flashlight from my back pocket and began to examine its exterior.

The passenger side was dented and bore long scratches, as if a fiend had furiously slashed back and forth across the paint job with a set of sharp nails. But that wasn’t all. The front bumper looked as though it had been repeatedly smacked with a hammer. However, the real clincher were the flakes of dark green paint that I found embedded in the abrasions—they were very same color as that of my Ford.

I thought back to what had happened last night. How odd. It already felt like weeks ago. Big Daddy could easily have beaten me home to the Haight. He would have had a good head start after pushing me into the woods. But there was something else. Simmons had clearly just taken a shower upon my arrival, and had been reluctant to let me inside. I hadn’t looked for a van on his block. But then again, why would I? There’d been no reason to suspect that Big Daddy was the road rage culprit.

The only thing screwing up my theory was the blue Thunderbird that sat parked outside the other house. Simmons couldn’t have driven both the car and van back to Mendocino early this morning. The whole thing was starting to make me a little crazy. I decided to give it a rest and look around some more.

A large freezer chest stood against the far wall. I made my way toward it, my stomach beginning to twist with apprehension at what I might find.

You’ve got too vivid an imagination, Porter
, my inner voice scolded.

Maybe so. But my hands felt numb and my mouth had suddenly become dry.

Please, let there only be deer meat inside.

Lifting the lid, I nearly breathed a sigh of relief to discover a mother lode of plastic containers, all neatly stacked and filled with hundreds of butterflies. They lay lifeless, apparently ready and waiting for buyers. Their wings were flawless, as if having never been touched by a net. Though this didn’t prove that Big Daddy was in any way Horus, it certainly revealed him to be a liar. There could no longer be any doubt but that Simmons was still in the butterfly trade.

Another thing struck me as I looked around. The shed was absolutely immaculate. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on the cement floor—not even the least bit of mud from off the van’s tires. Not a trace of dust could be found. Likewise, nothing was thrown about. Rather, every item and tool appeared to have been carefully organized and hung in its proper place. Come to think of it, this garage was cleaner than my own apartment. Funny, since neither Simmons’s abode in the Haight nor the other house up here were close to being this orderly. I’d never have fingered Big Daddy for a neat freak.

I turned to leave when a ripple of fear raced through me. Leaning next to the door was an object I hadn’t noticed before: a large metal scythe, its blade sharp and gleaming. I couldn’t take my eyes off the curved steel, its shape a disembodied grin, almost as if it knew something I didn’t.

I skirted around it and quickly left the shed. Then I headed toward the cabin while pulling out my gun.

I didn’t bother to knock. Just as at the other house, the
door was unlocked. I opened it and listened closely. There wasn’t a sound. I didn’t call out. I didn’t ask permission. Instead, I entered the cabin of my own accord.

I knew from the first step inside that something was wrong. Or perhaps it was a reaction to the fact that the cabin was also exceptionally neat. No question about it. Anyone this compulsively clean had way too much time on their hands.

But all that flew from my mind as I started to walk down the hall. The walls were filled with charcoal drawings of teenage girls. My apprehension swiftly escalated. They were nearly identical to those I’d seen in the gallery and at Carl Simmons’s apartment. Each girl conveyed the same sensual smile and bore no trace of a scar. And I suddenly realized who was responsible for the portraits. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It couldn’t be anyone other than Spencer Barnes. After all, he was the artist who designed tattoos for Big Daddy.

It’s the artist’s vision. He likes to idealize all the girls
. Simmons’s words came back to haunt me.

Was this possibly Spencer’s house, after all?

I shivered, remembering how his fingers had lingered over the jagged mark stretching across my throat, almost as if he’d been fascinated by it.

I continued on, my mind awhirl, my feet taking me where they chose to go. I entered what appeared to be the living room, its walls lined from top to bottom with museum-quality cabinets. Walking around, I began to open all of the drawers. Each held a display case exhibiting the most gorgeous butterflies that I’d seen so far.

The collection was absolutely enormous. There must have been nearly a hundred thousand perfectly preserved specimens; a larger collection than are in most museums. The butterflies were presented with surgical precision. Each had four tiny tags attached to one leg, much like those I’d seen at Trepler’s place. The penmanship on the labels was precise
and clear. Their scribe clearly had a penchant for collecting and organizing field data.

The only other furniture in the room were two high-back chairs, along with a coffee table. On its surface was a letter waiting to be folded and mailed. I usually had to dig through garbage cans and break into locked drawers to get my hands on private correspondence. I didn’t think twice, but scooped up the letter.

A happy face was drawn after the sentence.

It was exactly like the letters I’d found at Mitch Aikens’s place. That’s when an even stranger thought hit me. Could Spencer be the Horus for whom I’d been searching?

My question remained unanswered as my feet took me back down the hallway.

I next found myself in the kitchen engulfed by an aroma of ammonia and Lysol. The room was so clean, I could have eaten off the floor. In fact I wondered if anyone ate here at all. I decided to peek in the refrigerator and check out its contents.

I opened the fridge door only to have my heart spring clear into my throat.

Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch!

The sound was the stuff of nightmares; that of hundreds of nails frantically scratching within a coffin. Chills ran up my spine as I stared inside and realized where the unearthly din was coming from.

Hundreds of butterflies, still alive, were stacked on the shelves, each imprisoned in their own glassine envelope. The sudden burst of warmth and light must have jarred them from their semidormant state, because they now stomped their “feet” against the cellophane walls in a futile attempt to escape.

I grew sickened by the sight. These were newly hatched butterflies being kept alive until their internal fat metabolized. That way it wouldn’t leak out and stain their flawless wings. Only then would they be thrown into the freezer to die and sold as perfect specimens, not having flapped off one single precious scale.

I now checked the freezer. No butterflies were to be found: only packages of artificial food for hungry caterpillars. Either Spencer, Simmons, or both were raising larvae to sell, as well as catching butterflies in the wild. I couldn’t help but take one more look inside the refrigerator before moving on.

This time my pulse very nearly burst through my skin. I blinked, unsure that I could actually believe my eyes. There on the top shelf were four of the most delicate little butterflies. Each was an iridescent violet blue with a crenulate black border, and the softest white fringe.

I barely dared breathe. If this was a dream, I didn’t want it to end. I’d seen this butterfly once before—as a pinned specimen kept inside a locked vault. These four diminutive beauties were still alive. There was no doubt in my mind but that they were the same exact butterfly. If so, then I’d found what many others had searched for and feared to be forever lost—one of the most sought-after butterflies in existence: the legendary Lotis blue.

This must be how it would feel to find the Holy Grail
, I mused, my hand reaching inside the fridge.

I was sorely tempted to take the winged treasures and vamoose. Only there was more yet to do. I couldn’t leave without first conducting a thorough search for Lily. Instead I closed the refrigerator, reluctantly shutting the butterflies back in their tomb, vowing to return as soon as I could. Continuing on, I entered the bathroom.

A delicate bouquet filled the air, making me wonder if a woman might not also reside here. A quick glance revealed the room was stocked with a fragrant array of bath soaps. There was lavender, lily of the valley, and honeysuckle, as well as scented candles and body lotions.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and leaned in for a better view. What do you know? My skin actually appeared to be slightly dewy. Either I was sweating or my fifty-dollar moisturizer was beginning to work. Then I took a closer look at the bathroom mirror. Something about it seemed unusual. It wasn’t attached to a medicine cabinet, but set directly into the wall. I acted on a hunch, and placed my finger against the reflective surface.

Damn it to hell! My finger directly touched its image. If the mirror had been genuine, there’d have been a gap between my finger and its reflection. A two-way mirror had apparently been installed. The next logical question was, from where was the bastard watching? I walked back out into the hall.

A closet next to the bathroom was filled with jackets and sweaters, all in men’s sizes. I pushed them aside and entered. Then I ran my hands along the cedar panels, trying to determine where the mirror on the opposite side of the wall would be. A peg on which an umbrella had been hung seemed to mark the spot. I figured it was at least worth a shot. I gave the peg a hard tug, and part of the cedar panel popped out. A window was exposed, just as I had suspected.