Chill Factor (18 page)

"Yes, sir."

Hoot had never been so happy to see a destination in his life.
He'd
been driving all night over roads that were more suited for a luge. At
one interchange not too far out of Charlotte, a highway patrol car was
blocking an entrance ramp. The officer got out and motioned for Hoot to
back up. On Begley's orders, Hoot stayed put.

The patrolman approached them, shouting angrily, "Don't you
see me
motioning you? You can't come this way. The highway's closed."

Hoot lowered his window. Begley leaned across him and flashed
the
patrolman his ID, explained that they were in hot pursuit of a felon,
argued with the officer, pulled rank, and ultimately threatened to push
his goddamn patrol car out of the fucking way if he didn't fucking move
it immediately. The officer moved his car.

Hoot had managed to get them over the ramp without spinning
out, but
the muscles in his neck and back had been tied in knots ever since.
Begley seemed impervious to their peril. Either that or he trusted
Hoot's driving skills more than Hoot did.

Begley had allowed only two stops for snacks and coffee, which
they
took with them. At their last stop, Hoot had barely had time to zip up
after using the urinal before Begley was knocking on the door and
telling him to hurry it along.

Dawn had reduced the darkness only marginally. Cloud cover was
thick
and low. Fog and blowing snow limited visibility to a few feet. Hoot's
eyes were tired from straining to see beyond the hood ornament. His
speed had maxed out at fifteen miles an hour. Driving any faster would
have been suicidal. The freezing rain and sleet that had fallen
yesterday were now being exacerbated by a heavy snowfall, the likes of
which Hoot had seen only rarely in his thirty-seven years.

Before they interviewed Ben Tierney, he would have liked a
shower, a
shave, a pot of black coffee, and a hot, hearty breakfast. But as they
approached the burg of Cleary, Begley instructed him to drive directly
to the lodge on the outskirts of town.

The Whistler Falls Lodge was a collection of cabins on a small
lake
formed by the waterfall just above it. Deep snowdrifts had accumulated
along the fence that encircled a playground. Smoke was coming from the
chimney of the office. Except for that sign of human occupation, the
place seemed a deserted snowscape.

Hoot carefully steered the sedan off the highway, onto what he
hoped
was the driveway. It was indistinguishable under the deep snow.

"Which one's his?" Begley asked.

"Number eight." Hoot inclined his head in that direction. "The
one
nearest the lake."

"And he's still registered?"

"He was as of yesterday evening. But his Cherokee isn't here,"
Hoot
observed with disappointment. Only one cabin had a vehicle parked in
front of it, and it was partially buried in snow. There were no tire
tracks. "Should we check in with the manager?"

"What for?" Begley asked. Hoot looked over at him. "I can see
from
here that the door to cabin number eight is standing ajar, Special
Agent Wise. I bet if we knock on it, it'll open right up," he said with
a disingenuous smile.

"But, sir, if this is our guy, we don't want him to get off
because
his civil rights were violated."

"If this is our guy, I'll violate his head with a bullet
before I
let him get off on some procedural bullshit."

Hoot parked in front of cabin number eight. When he got out of
the
car, it felt good to stand up and stretch, even though he sank to his
ankles in snow. The wind sucked the breath out of his lungs, and his
eyeballs seemed to freeze instantly, but getting to arch his back was
worth these discomforts.

Begley seemed not to notice either the blinding snow or the
bitterly
cold wind. He plowed his way up the steps to the wraparound porch of
the cabin. He tried the door, and when he found it locked, he
nonchalantly slid a credit card into it. Seconds later, he and Hoot
were inside.

It was warmer than outdoors but still cold enough for their
breath
to vaporize. The ashes in the fireplace were gray and cold. The
kitchenette adjoining the main room was clean. No food had been left
out. Dishes had been washed and left in the drainer. They'd been there
long enough to dry.

Begley put his hands on his hips and pivoted slowly, taking in
the
details of the main room. "Doesn't look like he's been here for a
while. He didn't drive a Cherokee out of here this morning or we'd have
seen some tracks even with the way that snow's coming down. Do you have
any thoughts on where Mr. Tierney spent the night, Hoot?"

"None, sir."

"No girlfriend around here?"

"Not that I know of."

"Relatives?"

"No. I'm sure of that. He was an only child. Parents are
deceased."

"Then where the hell did he pass the night?"

Hoot had no answer to that.

He followed Begley into the front bedroom. After taking a
cursory
look around, Begley pointed toward the double bed. "Mrs. Begley would
consider that a sloppily made bed. She'd say that's the way a man makes
up a bed if he makes it up at all."

"Yes, sir."

Hoot was a man, but he never left a bed unmade, and he always
checked to see that the bottom edges of the bedspread were even. Nor
did he leave dishes in the drainer; he dried them himself and put them
away in their proper places. He also alphabetized his CDs, according to
recording artist, not title, and had his sock drawer arranged by color,
from the lightest to the darkest, moving left to right.

But he would cut out his tongue before contradicting Mrs.
Begley.

Unlike the cabin's main room, the bedroom where Tierney slept
looked
lived in. A pair of muddy cowboy boots had been kicked into the corner.
There was an open duffel bag in the center of the floor with articles
of clothing spilling out. Magazines were scattered across the desk
beneath the window. Hoot fought his compulsion to straighten them as he
ran a quick survey of the glossy covers.

"Pornography?" Begley asked.

"Adventure, sports, outdoors, fitness. The kind he writes
articles
for."

"Well, shit," Begley said, sounding disappointed. "That room
out
there would indicate that Tierney is a neat freak."

"Which fits the profile of the unsub we're looking for," said
Hoot,
realizing as he did that he was indicting his own obsessive-compulsive
tendencies.

"Right. But this. Goddammit," Begley said. "This looks like my
oldest boy's bedroom. So which is Tierney? A fucking psycho, or just
exactly what he looks like? A normal guy who likes the outdoors and
doesn't use fiddle books to get his rocks off?"

The question was rhetorical. Which was good, since hearing
pornography referred to as "fiddle books" had left Hoot speechless.

The closet door was standing open. Begley peered inside.
"Casual,
but it's quality stuff," he remarked after checking several labels.

"His credit card statements will attest to that," Hoot said.
"He
doesn't shop at discount stores."

Begley turned on his heel and quickly left the room. He
stamped
across the living area and opened the door to the second bedroom. He'd
taken no more than two steps into the room when he was brought up
short. "Here we go. Hoot!"

Hoot rushed to join him just inside the doorway. "Oh, man," he
said
under his breath.

Pictures of the five missing women had been taped to the wall
above
a table, which Hoot realized was the dining table that should have been
in the kitchenette. He hadn't missed it there until he saw it here.

On the table was a personal computer and an evidence treasure
trove
of printed material. Newspaper accounts of the missing women had been
clipped from the
Cleary Call
, as well as from
newspapers as
far away as Raleigh and Nashville. Passages had been marked with
colored felt-tip pens.

Yellow legal tablets contained pages of scribbled notes, some
scratched through, some underlined or otherwise noted as worth
reviewing or remembering. There were five file folders, one for each of
the young women. They contained sheets of handwritten notes, newspaper
clippings, photos that had been published on missing persons posters or
in the media.

And every time there was a mention of the unidentified
culprit, it
had been highlighted with a blue marker.

Begley pointed down to such a passage. "Blue."

"I noticed that, sir."

"His signature color."

"So it would seem."

"Ever since he took Torrie Lambert."

"Yes, sir."

"The computer—"

"Will no doubt have a user password."

"Think you can crack that, Hoot?"

"I'll certainly try, sir."

"Awright, hold it right there, 'less you want yore heads
blowed
clean off." The voice had the resonance of a cement mixer. "Raise yore
hands and turn round real slow-like."

Begley and Hoot did as asked and found themselves looking down
the
twin bores of a double-barreled shotgun.

Hoot said, "Hello, Mr. Elmer. Remember me? Charlie Wise?"

He was standing in the center of the room, shotgun raised to
chest
level. When Hoot called him by name, he squinted for better focus. His
face was as red and wrinkled as a persimmon that had been in the sun
too long. He was wearing a ratty, moth-eaten watch cap, from which
trailed strands of stringy hair that were the same dingy white as his
bushy beard. Tobacco juice stains rimmed his lips, which broke into a
smile that revealed toothless gums, save for three brown stumps.

"Lord a'mighty. I could've kilt you." He lowered the shotgun.
"Did
you come to give Mr. Tierney his award?"

Hoot had to think a moment before remembering the cover story
he'd
fabricated to explain his interest in Ben Tierney. "Uh, no. This is
Special Agent in Charge Begley. We're—"

"Gus? You in there?"

"Aw, hell," Gus Elmer said. "I done called the police. Thought
somebody was in here stealing Mr. Tierney's stuff while he weren't
here."

Under his breath, Begley muttered a stream of profanity.

The old man turned to wave in the police officer who poked his
head
inside the main door. Pistol in hand, he gave the FBI agents a curious
once-over. "These the burglars?"

"We're not burglars." Hoot could tell by Begley's voice that
he'd
had enough of this nonsense and was about to regain control of a
situation that had rapidly unraveled. He pushed Hoot forward and
soundly closed the door to the bedroom behind them to prevent the other
two from seeing what they'd discovered.

"We're FBI agents," Begley continued, "and I'd like for you to
reholster your weapon before you shoot somebody, namely me."

The policeman was young, under thirty by several years unless
Hoot
missed his guess. SAC Begley's nutcracker and authoritative tone
flustered him. Only after his pistol was put away did he remember to
ask to see their identification. They complied.

Satisfied that they were who they purported to be, he smartly
introduced himself. "Harris. Cleary PD." He touched the brim of his
uniform hat, which was dusted with melting snow. His uniform pants were
stuffed into tall rubber boots. His shearling-lined leather bomber
jacket looked a size or two too small, preventing his arms from hanging
naturally at his sides. They stuck out several degrees from his body.

Gus Elmer scratched his beard as he gawked at Hoot. "You're an
FBI
agent? No foolin'?"

"No foolin'," Begley replied, answering for him.

"So what're y'all doin' here? Wha'd'ya want with Mr. Tierney?"

"To talk."

" 'Bout what? Is he wanted for somethin'? What's he did?"

"I'd like to know that myself," said Harris. "Are you serving
an
arrest warrant?"

"Nothing like that. We just have a few questions for him."

"Huh. Questions." Harris chewed on that for a moment, giving
each of
them a dubious appraisal. "Have you got a warrant to search these
rooms?"

So, Hoot thought, Harris wasn't as inexperienced as he'd
appeared.

Ignoring the question, Begley asked, "Your chief's name is
ton,
correct?"

"Yes, sir. Dutch Burton."

"Where can I find him?"

"Right now?"

It was such a stupid question, Begley didn't deign to answer
it. He
didn't recognize a timetable other than
right now
.

When Harris realized his gaffe, he stammered, "Well, uh, I
just
heard dispatch say the chief was going to round up Cal
Hawkins— he has
the town's only sanding truck—then take him over to the
drugstore for
some coffee."

"Hoot, do you know where the drugstore is?" Begley asked. Hoot
nodded. Begley turned back to Harris. "Tell Chief Burton that we'd like
to join him there in half an hour. Got it?"

"I'll tell him, but he's anxious to—"

"Nothing is as important as this. You tell him I said that."

"Yes, sir," Harris replied. "About that warrant?"

"Later." Begley rapidly crooked his finger at the young
officer, who
clumped over to him. Unlike his jacket, his boots seemed a size too
large. Begley drew close to him and spoke in an urgent undertone. "If
you communicate my message to Chief Burton over your police radio, tell
him only that it's imperative we meet this morning. Don't mention any
names. Do you understand? This is a top-priority, extremely delicate
matter. Discretion is vital. Can I count on your confidentiality?"

"Absolutely, sir. I understand." He touched the brim of his
hat
again and rushed out.

When Hoot had been reassigned to the bureau office in
Charlotte,
he'd welcomed the opportunity to serve under its famed director. Up
till now, he'd worked with Begley from the sidelines. This was Hoot's
first chance to watch him in action and observe the skills for which
he'd become a living legend with other agents and criminals alike.
Colleagues learned from him. Lawbreakers learned from him too, but to
their detriment.