Collecting the Dead (25 page)
I’m about halfway through
Full Black
, a thriller by Brad Thor, and I’m determined to finish it by the end of the day. I’ve followed Thor for a number of years and have a signed first edition, first printing of his debut novel,
The
Lions of Lucerne
. I’m a big Vince Flynn fan as well, and I was upset when cancer took him at such a young age. I have a few of his books stacked up and ready to read and have sworn to read his entire works out of respect for the man: my own personal tribute.
There’s just never enough time.
Today’s the exception. I read and read and read some more, pausing only long enough to grab a glass of iced tea. The phone only rings once and I don’t answer it. They don’t call back, so I know it’s not important.
By 4:15
P.M.
Full Black
is fully read, and I start in on Vince Flynn’s
Extreme Measures
. I don’t get very far before Ellis wanders over and suggests a barbecue. He has some two-inch steaks he’s been wanting to cook but says it’s a shame to enjoy such a treat alone. When I’m home, Ellis, Jens, and I tend to eat about half our meals together. It’s good for all of us. We’re like our own little three-man family unit, and Jens likes reminding Ellis that he’s the grandpa of the group.
I make a run into town in Gus, my Mini Cooper, and pick up three decent-sized lobster tails so we can make it surf and turf. I also grab two dozen oysters, which are great on the barbecue with butter and garlic in the half shell.
Dinner’s ready by 7:30, and at 9:16 we’re still at the table talking and playing cards as the sun sets beyond the San Juan Islands, painting the sky a thousand shades of red and purple. It’s beyond words; the afterglow of heaven.
As the night cools, we retreat to the hot tub with a six-pack of beer and melt into the soothing, caressing water. I’ll sleep well tonight. There won’t be any nightmares or the long parade of dead faces. The trailing shadow of a perfect day will carry me through the night.
Tomorrow evening we head back to Redding, but for now I sleep.
July 3, 10:37
P.M.
There are certain situations in life where it’s just not smart to take chances. A very public marriage proposal would be a good example. Before you propose on the Jumbotron during halftime at the football game, you’d better be certain she’s going to say yes. And the more life-threatening the situation, the fewer chances you want to take. That’s why you double-check parachutes, climbing ropes, scuba tanks, and landing gear. Some things you simply don’t gamble on.
Serial killers: another good example.
Throw the dice all you want when you’re in Vegas and it’s just money on the line, but when a serial killer knows your name and isn’t very happy with you, that’s not the time to live loose and free. If said serial killer has sent you a nicely wrapped gift containing a pair of wet eyes and a severed finger, well, that ups the ante a bit. Now it’s time to hold your cards close to the chest.
That’s what Jimmy and I are doing.
Gulfstream jets are not an uncommon sight at smaller airports in northern California, but we decide not to take any chances and, instead, land Betsy seventy miles to the south, at Chico Municipal Airport. Even though
FBI
isn’t splayed across her fuselage, and she looks like any other corporate jet on the tarmac, Sad Face is probably clever enough to get a tail number. Better to keep our distance so that our return goes unnoticed.
We rent a nondescript sedan at the airport—a Ford with tinted windows—and drop Les and Marty at a hotel a half mile from the control tower. They need to be ready at a moment’s notice, if needed. There won’t be any jaunts to San Francisco or Monterey this time around. The stakes have changed and the whole team is now at risk.
Les and Marty understand this; they’ve been through this drill before.
Before we pull out of the hotel parking lot, Jimmy slips Les a .40-caliber Glock and a black gun case. “It’s loaded,” he says, “same with the extra magazines in the case. Make sure you keep it close.”
“No worries, boss,” Les says, sliding the Glock into his waistband gangster-style. He takes the gun case and hands it to Marty.
“Let’s hope not,” Jimmy replies. “I’m just starting to like you two.” He grins and rolls the window up as the Ford glides away from the smirking, waving flight crew and merges into the stream of taillights on the parkway.
The pavement stretches forty-two miles from Chico to Red Bluff along Highway 99, also known as the Golden State Highway. I imagine it’s a pleasant enough drive during the day, but there’s not much to see by night and the drive seems to drag on and on; the end is out there somewhere, but it seems forever stuck just beyond the glow of the headlights.
“Red Bluff,” Jimmy finally says in the darkness. The dim light from the dash highlights his cheeks, his nose, his eyes, and his chin as he stares into the dark tunnel of pavement before him. Beyond the tunnel of night, beyond the pavement, the glow of a city rises like yellow mist from the desert.
“Red Bluff,” I say to myself.
With little talk and less enthusiasm, we check into a motel at the ragged edge of town. It’s not a dirty motel, nor an unfriendly motel, it’s just a worn-out motel. The tile in the lobby is faded and battered like so much wind-scarred granite. A million footfalls have coursed through the lobby over the years; ten million footfalls. The counter is retro-seventies Formica; the paint, the wallpaper, and the fixtures are all dated, and I suspect the last makeover was sometime in the mid-eighties … and it wasn’t much of a makeover.
We have reservations tomorrow at the Hampton Inn, but they were full-up tonight, so we’re slumming at Hotel California. That’s not really the name of the dilapidated inn, but as we make our way to the sketchy elevator, Jimmy begins to hum “Hotel California.”
“Nice,” I hiss at him.
It’s the perfect song for hunting serial killers.
* * *
Night … the woods.…
Cold shadow and black mist seep through the forest, filling every empty space, pushing out the light, the warmth, the hope. Somewhere above the canopy of leaves and pine needles the full moon is paused in space, lost to sight. Trees press close, leaning over me in a menacing, foreboding manner that suggests hatred and loathing. Gnarled and twisted branches jut from every trunk, clinging, reaching, grasping.
How did I get here?
I can’t think straight; I open my mouth to call Jimmy’s name, but a sound stops me
. Just a twig snapping behind me
, I think, but there’s something else, some background noise, low and familiar. I press myself hard into the nearest tree and turn to stone, my ears pricking at the silence, poking it, but the thick night air reveals nothing.
A chill sweeps over me, a cold breath exhaled; I try to control the shiver. Raising my right hand, I rub my arm, but it’s wet and sticky, so I stop. My hand hurts—a dull ache.
Where’s Jimmy?
He can’t be far. I don’t remember how we got here or even where we are. Did I hit my head? Did someone else hit my head? I feel for bumps, but my hair is sticky and wet, so I stop.
The sound; it’s closer now by a few feet: a low hiss, then a pause, then a slightly different hiss, then it repeats. It’s right in front of me, maybe ten feet away, but the trees and the consuming darkness hide it. I don’t like the sound; I know what it is, I recognize it, but I can’t remember it. My thinking is fuddled. None of this makes sense; it’s surreal.
Where’s Jimmy?
Where’s my gun?
Cursing myself for a coward, I push away from the tree and take a hesitant step toward the sound. My left hand is outstretched before me, feeling the way … guarding against … something. Another step, and then another. I see it now, a white mist in the darkness, hissed out in a small cloud, then dissolving, like steam ushered forth from the night.
Beyond is a shadow … a man-shadow.
I freeze—I’m no coward—and watch the blackness within the black. Realization comes to me slowly as I watch, unmoving. I recognize it now—the hiss, the mist—the sound that is so familiar: breathing, unnatural breathing; something not human. The sound of it chills my blood more than the cold mountain air.
I shrink back, raising both hands in front of me as he steps from the gloom. His head and face are hideous beyond words, featureless and devoid of hair, with rocks for his eyes and nose and a mass of wriggling worms for his downturned mouth. He extends a hand as I stumble back and something drops to the ground from his gloved fingers. My eyes follow and I scratch furiously at my right hand as the dull persistent ache swells in the bone. The object bounces off the ground, scattering leaves.
I scream when I see it.
I scream at the pain in my hand.
I scream at the severed index finger lying on the forest floor—
my
index finger.
I’m sitting upright in bed when the scream wakes me—
my
scream. I’m clutching my hand and my eyes quickly scan the fingers, immediately feeling silly for doing so. My body is slick with a light sheen of sweat.
The clock reads 4:15
A.M.
* * *
“You look like hell,” Jimmy says when he joins me in the lobby. “Rough night? Let me guess, bad dreams?”
“Nothing but gumballs and lollipops,” I lie.
“Yeah, right,” he snorts. “The décor in this place doesn’t help. I was halfway through washing my hair this morning when the shower scene from
Psycho
popped into my head. I couldn’t even open my eyes because of the shampoo, which made it even creepier. I kept imagining this shadowy figure with a knife on the other side of the curtain.” He shoulders his bag and we start for the exit. “So you going to tell me about your dream?” he presses.
I don’t reply and Jimmy leaves it alone.
He knows the routine.
After a short drive to Redding, we park at the Mt. Shasta Mall seven minutes after it opens. We’re not here to shop, so we breeze quickly past Old Navy, Hot Topic, RadioShack, and the usual mall-squatters. We
do
stop long enough for Jimmy to grab an Orange Julius, and then we’re on our way again, cutting straight through the mall. At the halfway point we split up; Jimmy goes to the left and I go to the right, popping in and out of random stores. When we reach the northern end of the mall, we don’t exit but double back a hundred feet or so. Satisfied that we’re not being tailed, we exit through the wall of glass doors to the north, back into sunlight and blue sky.
A dark blue Ford Expedition is idling in the parking lot but quickly pulls around to the sidewalk and stops. The front passenger door is thrown open and Sheriff Gant’s smiling face says, “Hop in.”
A surveillance detection route (SDR) is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a twisting, stopping, doubling-back, turning, and sometimes dead-end course of walking or driving employed to help ferret out anyone who might be following.
While they’re most commonly used by the intelligence community, SDRs are also a necessary tool for the FBI, for diplomats, for some private security firms, and even for the military in certain environments. It’s best to have a second set of eyes, or better yet a second vehicle, when conducting SDRs. A chase vehicle a hundred yards back is better positioned to observe how other vehicles react to the target vehicle’s random turns, stops, and stalls.
You can also do SDRs solo. It just takes some planning.
After a few random turns and sudden stops, Walt steers the Expedition down a preselected road that winds back and forth so that it’s impossible to see what’s right around each turn. At the end is a wide cul-de-sac with no outlet.
We park and wait.
Five minutes later Walt fires up the SUV and we continue to the station. It’s doubtful that Sad Face has any intelligence training, or even knows what countersurveillance is, but he’s surprised us before and we can’t take any chances. We have to err on the side of overkill.
This is what happens when the hunters become the hunted.
July 5, 7:45
A.M.
We’ve been back in Redding less than two days, and now this.
It’s not good.
Sheriff Gant’s house looks like a crime scene when Jimmy and I arrive. Four marked patrol cars, two unmarked SUVs, three unmarked Crown Victorias, and a crime scene van fill the street just beyond the ropes of yellow police tape that encompass the sidewalk, yard, and driveway of the sheriff’s modest two-story. Uniformed deputies and plainclothes detectives move slowly about the property, studying every inch of ground, while two crime scene investigators process the sheriff’s Ford Expedition.
Approaching the house, I see it immediately: brilliant amaranth and rust footsteps coming down the sidewalk from the north and turning up the driveway, one set coming and one set going. Waving Jimmy to follow, I pursue the amaranth trail north a block, then west two blocks, where the prints disappear.
“He got into a car right here,” I say, pointing at the empty pavement.
Jimmy crouches a few feet away and dips his finger into a stained patch of road. Rolling the blackness between his finger and thumb, he smells it. “This oil was left recently … within the last twelve hours.” He smells it again. “It’s burnt. Probably left by an older car or truck, and one that’s not well maintained.”
Returning to the sheriff’s house, we cross the yellow tape and make directly for the Ford Expedition. The amaranth steps pause next to the driver’s-side front fender, then turn and leave the way they came.
“Bastard came to my house,” Walter bellows as he bursts from the front door waving a standard #10 envelope in his hand. “Came to my house while I was sleeping, like some common sneak-thief, only he’s not common, is he? My wife’s in a state. I thought I was going to have to call paramedics because she was hyperventilating so badly. Now she’s up there packing. Says she’s going to her sister’s in Sacramento until we catch this guy, and I don’t blame her one bit.”
