Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (32 page)

Then, without realizing it, she found one. She almost missed it at first, glancing at the thumbnail but not clicking it, about to move on, when she realized it was another shot of Chavi.

Opening the larger version, Anna stiffened involuntarily as the photo filled the page.

This one was labeled:
Napasnica i raditi kao rob
. Chavi was standing at the rear of a wagon, doing what, according to the text, was forbidden in gypsy culture. A precocious look on her face, she was lifting her long skirt, exposing her legs.

A scandal, by Roma standards, apparently. But this wasn’t the part of the photograph that had caught Anna’s attention. Her focus was instead drawn to the back of the wagon, where the face of a teenage boy could clearly be seen. He was crouched inside, his unhappy gaze on Chavi.

His face was lopsided. Severely deformed. A dark bandanna covered his misshapen skull.

It was Red Cap.

The bogeyman.

Something skittered through Anna, leaving an icy trail behind.

The accompanying text explained that the girl in the photograph was believed to be the Zala family’s youngest daughter.

The boy in the wagon, however, was unknown.

According to O’Keefe’s biographer, many believed—as Anna had suspected—that the girl and O’Keefe had been romantically involved, fueling rumors of a gypsy death curse against the photographer by one of her family members. These rumors had never been substantiated and the official cause of death was reported to be “bleeding of the brain.”

Anna shuddered, staring at the photograph.

Staring at Red Cap.

Translated into English, O’Keefe’s caption,
Napasnica i raditi kao rob
, read:
Temptress and Slave
.

A
NNA’S NEXT STOP
on the information superhighway—which was still plagued by speed bumps—was a people-finder Web site.

There were dozens of them on the Internet, all claiming to have the most up-to-date databases. It was unlikely, however, that any of them were as accurate as the bureau’s own case-support system, but without access Anna was out of luck. So-she chose one at random and hoped for the best.

Typing the name
M Zala
into the search field, she clicked the go button and waited.

A minute and a half later, the list appeared, showing full names and locations of over sixty people around the country. Marion Zala, Manuel Zala, Michael Zala, Michelle Zala, and dozens of variations. But she was relying on instinct here, and none of them felt right to her.

Anna decided to widen the search to include only the surname, and got back twice the number of entries. She carefully scanned the list, hoping one would pop out at her.

At entry number thirty-nine, she got her wish.

Name: Antonija Zala.

Location: Allenwood, California.

4
0

“
WAKE UP,
sleepyhead.”

Pope groaned. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven. Come on.”

He groaned again. “Give me a break. This is the best sleep I’ve had in a decade.”

“So that’s how it is, huh? You have your way with me and now you want me to get lost?”

Pope stifled a laugh. Opened his eyes. If any other woman had asked him this during the last couple of years, he probably would have said yes. He’d been a walking zombie, thinking about nobody but himself.

Eat. Gamble. Get high. Fuck.

Oh, and make sure you spend as much time as possible letting everyone around you know how miserable you are.

This wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, but in one day—and one unbelievable night—McBride had changed all that.

Just the sight of her now, sitting on the edge of the bed, fresh from a shower, her hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around her, made Pope want to reach out just to make sure she was really there. That she wouldn’t disappear on him.

As crazy as it sounded, he was in love with her.

And it was a feeling he’d never felt this strong before. Not even with Susan. A jump-up-on-Oprah’s-sofa kind of feeling that he would’ve made fun of only a day ago.

But not now.

Now he understood.

And despite what they’d been through, he wanted
her
to understand, too.

“Come here,” he said, taking her hand.

She leaned forward and kissed him. “That’s more like it. But I wasn’t kidding, it’s time to get up. We have to go.”

“Why? You’ve heard from Jake?”

“No, but I’ve got a lead. At least I hope it’s one.”

“What kind of lead?”

“I won’t know until we get there,” Anna said, climbing off the bed. She went to a chair, tossed her towel aside, and picked up her panties, stepping into them. It’s funny what a night in bed can do to a woman’s modesty.

Pope watched her and couldn’t help thinking lascivious thoughts. She was breathtaking.

“Get where?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“Allenwood.”

He sat up. “Allenwood?”

“It’s near Salcedo, about a three-and-a-half-hour drive.”

“I know. It’s where the amusement park is. Big Mountain.”

“Was,” McBride said. “The place has been closed down for nearly twenty-five years. The town couldn’t afford to demolish it, so they just let it rot.”

“And you know all this how?”

McBride strapped her bra on. “I took a little field trip while you were sleeping.”

“You what?” Pope got out of bed, approached her. “Jesus, Anna, what were you thinking? That guy could be out there somewhere. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“And interrupt the best sleep you’ve had in a decade? I don’t think so.”

She grabbed her blouse, slipped into it, but he took hold of her arm. “Quit being so goddamn cavalier. I don’t know if what happened in here last night meant the same to you as it did to me, but I don’t want to lose you.”

She stopped, touched his cheek. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t go far. Just to the manager’s office to use the computer.” She gestured to her Glock, which lay in its holster on the dresser nearby. “And I took protection.”

Pope still wasn’t happy. But what could he say? When it came down to it, she’d probably handled herself better with the gypsy than he had. The twin defenders, too.

He released her and let her button her blouse.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Red Cap. The gypsy.”

“What?”

“Relax. It was in a photograph. From 1881.”

1881? What the hell?

Pope was glad Jake wasn’t around to scream,
Bullshit
.

McBride went to the dresser, picked up a photo, and showed it to him. A young gypsy girl. A dark-haired beauty.

“I found this in Susan’s notebook. It’s the girl from the locket. I think it’s Chavi.”

Then she turned it over, showing him a cryptic message written on the back in Susan’s handwriting, with Anna’s translation beneath it:
M Zala Knows All
.

Anna told him about a morning spent searching the Internet and about an entire collection of photographs she’d seen online, one of which included Red Cap.

“You sure it was him?”

She picked up a sheet of paper and handed it across to him. “He’s younger, but it’s him, all right.”

It was a computer print-out of another photograph. The quality wasn’t the best, and the face looked even
more
deformed, but it was, without a doubt, the same man who had attacked them in Pope’s upstairs hallway.

“I don’t get it. How could he still be alive?”

“How does he do anything he does? Maybe Antonija Zala can tell us.”

“Who’s that?”

She gestured to the name scrawled on the back of the photograph.
M Zala
. “Hopefully someone who knows her.”

“There are probably dozens of Zalas all over the world,” Pope said. “What makes you think this one’s related?”

“Because she lives in Allenwood and I don’t like coincidences. Besides, I’ve got nothing else.”

Pope thought about this, then nodded. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed.”

He started for the bathroom, but when he got to the doorway, McBride said, “By the way, have you ever done any photography?”

He turned. “Not really, why?”

“I saw a portrait of Jonathan O’Keefe—the one who took the photos? Rumor has it that he and Chavi were lovers.”

“So?”

“He had your eyes.”

Pope smiled, holding her gaze. “That explains a lot,” he said.

4
1

J
AKE WORTHINGTON WAS
about a block from home when his cell phone rang.

He groaned, hoping it wasn’t someone from the office. After leaving Danny and McBride at the motel, he’d worked straight through the night on the Fairweather case, waiting for the crime scene techs to send him the latents off the gypsy’s stun gun. Then he ran them through the office’s automated fingerprint identification system, waited a good three hours for the results—

—and got a big fat donut.

No matches. Nothing.

He had killed the time by filing reports and filling out the paperwork to facilitate the interstate transfer of the two goons who had attacked Danny, cursing his dumb-ass cousin for getting involved with these idiots in the first place.

The rest of the time was spent spinning his wheels, thinking about all the shit he’d seen in the last several hours and how his whole concept of reality had been stood on its head. By the end of the night, all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and get a couple hours’ shut-eye before it all started over again.

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, hoping it was Ronnie. Married for eighteen years, they’d known each other since they were kids, and he never got tired of hearing her voice.

But it was Danny’s name on the screen.

He clicked the receive button. “What’s up, Cuz?”

“You have any luck with those prints?”

“We got zilch,” he said. “If this guy was ever printed, it wasn’t in this century. Or the last one, either.”

There was silence on the line, and for a moment Jake felt as if he were in a cell phone commercial about dropped connections—except he could hear Danny breathing.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but Anna found a photo of our guy in the Powell University archives.”

Jake felt his pulse start to elevate. “And why the hell wouldn’t you tell me something that major?”

“Because I know exactly how you’ll react.”

Jake made the turn into his driveway, noting the red Toyota that Danny had parked there. He knew it wasn’t Danny’s car, and wondered what poor fool was waiting for its return. A woman, no doubt.

“Don’t you worry about how I’ll react,” he said. “Just get me a copy of that photo.”

“That was the Powell University
Historical
Archives to be more precise.”

Jake shut off his engine and climbed out. “And?”

“The photo was taken in the late 1800s.”

Jake stopped. “Say that again.”

“In Slavonia,” Danny said. “Sound familiar?”

Jake said nothing. Felt goose bumps travel from the top of his head down to his toes.

“It’s true, Jake. You can check it out online yourself.”

He listened as Danny gave him the Web site information. “This is nuts,” he said. “Who the hell are we dealing with here?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out. We’re headed to Allenwood.”

“Why Allenwood?”

“To follow up on a lead Anna found in Susan’s notebook. Somebody we’re hoping can shed some light on all this. Are you in?”

“Jesus, Danny, I’m running on empty right now. How solid is this lead?”

“On a scale from one to ten? About a four.”

Not very promising, Jake thought. He stood on his walkway trying to decide between a potential wild-goose chase and some much-needed slumber. If he remembered correctly, Allenwood was a fairly good distance away, and the drive wouldn’t be short. And if something more substantial broke here while he was gone, he’d have to run his investigation long-distance. Not something he wanted to do.

Besides, McBride was a professional. If this lead of hers panned out, he trusted that she’d ask all the right questions.