Silent Victim (32 page)

“Bingo,” Butts said softly.

Lee had a cold, hollow feeling in his stomach. What other secrets did the eccentric Martin Perkins keep hidden from the world—including his sister?

Butts lifted the tapes out carefully with his gloved hands. They were all neatly labeled, each with a different name on them. Two of the tapes were of particular interest: one of them said
ANA,
and the other
CALEB.

“Well, whaddya waitin’ for?” Butts scolded Officer Anderson, who stood staring at their discovery. “Plug in the video recorder so we can see these damn things!”

“Which one should we start with?” Lee said when the machine was ready to go.

“I’m really curious about this Caleb character,” Butts said. “Why don’t we start with him?”

Anderson hit the play button, and they gathered around the machine like teenagers at their first porn film, with a combination of excitement and uneasiness.

The camera was focused on the couch in the corner of Perkins’s office. After a moment, a young man entered the frame and lay on the couch. Dr. Perkins was not in sight, but his voice came through the camera’s microphone.

“Are you comfortable?”

The young man nodded.

“Good,” said Perkins, and began to lead his patient through a series of imagery Lee recognized immediately as standard suggestions intended to induce hypnosis.

“He’s hypnotizing the kid!” Butts whispered, as if he didn’t want to disturb the other movie patrons around him. “Right, Doc?” he asked Lee.

“That’s right,” Lee said.

“Very well,” Perkins was saying, “go ahead, let yourself go—and when you’re ready, let Caleb come through.”

“Jesus,” Officer Anderson whispered. “This is weird.”

The young man twisted and fidgeted on the couch, his eyes still closed; then he became still. He appeared to be sleeping.

“Caleb?” Dr. Perkins said. “Are you there?” “I’m here,” the young man said in a firm, clear voice. His eyes were still closed.

“Do you know who I am?” Perkins asked. “You’re … my father.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Butts. “He’s got the kid involved in this whole past-lives crap.”

“Are you a good son?” Perkins asked.

“Yes, father.”

“And what do good sons do?” “What their fathers tell them to do.” Perkins’s disembodied voice was calm, as if he had just asked the boy to pick up some groceries. “Do bad girls have to die?” “Yes, father.”

“And who has been a very bad girl?” “Ana has.”

“You mean your sister?”

“Yes, father.”

Butts hit the pause button.

“Holy crap!” he said, droplets of sweat gathering on his pockmarked face. “If Perkins has this kid convinced Ana is his sister in some past life, and he’s his father, that makes Charlotte—”

“His mother.” Lee finished for him.

“So Perkins convinces him to kill Ana—why?”

“Maybe so she won’t rat him out to the authorities about their affair,” Lee reasoned. “Her diary did suggest she was going to confront someone, which fits in with what Charlotte told me.”

“But then why would this Caleb guy kill Dr. Perkins?” Officer Anderson said.

“Jealousy,” Butts answered. “Oldest motive in the book. He finds out somehow that Perkins was sleeping with Ana—”

“Maybe Charlotte told him!” Anderson suggested, making no attempt to hide his excitement.

“So if he’s abducted Charlotte,” Lee continued, “in his mind—”

This time Butts finished for him. “He’s kidnapping his mother.”

Caleb’s real identity was indeed Eric McNamara, and according to his file, he lived in Sergeantsville, one of the tiny hamlets nestled amid the rolling farmland of Hunterdon County, to the northeast of Stockton.

“Well, what are we waitin’ for?” Butts said. “Let’s go!”

They went outside to get Diesel, who was still standing guard by the front door, leaving Officer Anderson to deal with the CSI team just arriving from Trenton. The young policeman gazed out wistfully from the porch as the three of them climbed into the old Ford. Butts cranked up the engine, and they sped off in a cloud of blue smoke.

The hills of Hunterdon County were not ideal for the enormous rattrap of a car, especially not at the speed Butts was driving. Lee avoided looking at the speedometer, but held his breath each time they bounded up the crest of a blind hill or careened around a sharp curve. Lee glanced at the backseat to see how their passenger was taking it. He was irritated to see Diesel looking calmly out the window, his powerful hands folded in his lap, taking in the scenery as though they were on a leisurely Sunday drive instead of pursuing a murder suspect.

They had tried calling Lee’s cell phone periodically, with no luck. It went straight to voice mail, indicating that either the phone was turned off or the battery was dead.

Butts gunned the engine up a steep hill, zooming past stone houses with freshly painted wood fences and elaborately landscaped properties. This was where the moneyed classes moved when they retired—those who had too much class to move to Boca or Orlando, and enough money to winter in Florida and spend summers here. “What do you reckon the chances are he’ll be there?”

“Probably not very good,” Lee said. There was no question of calling ahead—the worst thing they could do was alert a suspect ahead of time. The only thing they could do was go there and hope to find him.

But Lee figured he was too smart to be anywhere near home, if he had in fact kidnapped Charlotte, and especially if he had murdered Perkins. The attack did show signs of frenzy and overkill, but the killer had been clever at hiding his tracks so far, and Lee thought it likely he had regained his wits soon after killing Perkins. He had enough presence of mind to take the murder weapon with him.

Of course, there was still a chance Charlotte had killed her brother and made a run for it, but he didn’t think so. He couldn’t see her sending a text message asking for help, then picking up a heavy object and wielding it with enough force to do the kind of damage they had seen. And he definitely didn’t see her taking Krieger in a fair fight.

They found the house at the end of a narrow street a mile or so from the center of the little town, which consisted of an upscale restaurant and a few shops. There was no car in the driveway, and no sign of life in the house. Butts parked at the end of the drive, and the three of them got out of the car quietly.

“Why don’t you stay here and be lookout?” Butts told Diesel as he and Lee started up the dirt driveway.

Lee was sorry leave him behind—if there was a struggle, the powerful Diesel would be more useful than either the pudgy little detective or himself. But they were in delicate legal territory; he and Butts were employees of the NYPD, and Diesel wasn’t.

The house was an 1860s farmhouse, and like many others in the area, it had been modernized, with wings added on over the years. The property was well maintained, with a vegetable garden out back and a rose trellis over an old well that looked as if it was still in use. A fresh coat of white paint on the porch gave the place a cheery, inviting look—though their arrival would be anything but welcome.

On one of the porch columns, next to the front steps, was a sculpture of a Green Man. It was different from both the one at Perkins’s house and the one Ana Watkins owned. Made of plaster, it was larger and even more fierce-looking, and a few actual leaves and twigs had been shoved behind it, so that it looked like they were growing out of its head. Lee tugged on the detective’s sleeve and pointed to it. Butts turned to look, nodded, then drew his revolver and mounted the porch steps, which creaked from age and damp weather.

The front door was open from the inside; only the screen door stood between them and the front hallway. He strode to the front door and yanked the rope attached to the clanger on the old-fashioned dinner bell hanging next to the front door. Its hollow report sent a chill through Lee’s body.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls….

“Police—open up!” Butts called out, holding his gun close to his body, the barrel pointing upward. There was no answer. Peering through the screen door, Lee could see no movement inside the house. He strained to hear something—anything—but there was no furtive shuffling, no scurrying footsteps of a fugitive on the lam.

“Police! If you’re in there, open up!” Butts called again, but he was met once again with silence. He looked at Lee and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “No warrant—we’re on shaky ground here. I don’t see a judge buyin’ probable cause. I think we’re stuck.”

They stood contemplating their options as a swarm of gnats lazily circled the far end of the porch. A gentle breeze brought the scent of honeysuckle wafting in from the garden, mixed with the tart green smell of tomato vines and geraniums. In the woods, cicadas began their metallic descending scale, signaling the end of summer.

A faint sound from within the house broke the stillness. It was a gentle rustling, as though a mouse or some other small animal was trying to burrow into a nest and hide. It seemed to come from the other end of the front hall. Lee pressed his face against the screen door and peered down the dark corridor.

“Hey, be careful!” Butts whispered fiercely behind him, but Lee remained where he was, trying to make out the dim figure advancing down the hall toward them. His instincts told him the person, whoever it was, held no threat for them.

“Hello?” he called. The form stopped moving, then crumpled to the floor. He looked at Butts, but the detective’s hand was already on the screen doorknob.

“Now we got probable cause,” the detective said, pushing the door open.

Lee followed Butts into the house. They reached the end of the hall in three or four steps. In front of them was the emaciated figure of a man. He had collapsed onto the floor next to the stairs and was clutching at the banister, trying to heave his wasted body to his feet. With his other hand he clutched wildly at the air, as though trying to reach out for their assistance. He sawed the air frantically, like a broken antenna trying to find a signal.

They reached down and gently helped him to his feet, though the spindly legs appeared unable to support the weight of even his meager body. One on either side of him, they helped him to a chair, setting him down gingerly. He looked elderly, perhaps seventy or so, though it was hard to tell; in his condition, he could have been twenty years younger. Lee figured that he was probably Eric McNamara’s father.

“I’m Detective Butts with the NYPD,” Butts said gently. “And this is Dr. Lee Campbell. Can you tell us where your son is?”

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out were pitiful, strangled sounds.

At that moment Lee realized he had no tongue.

“Jesus Christ,” Butts muttered, running a hand over his face. “Jesus goddamn Christ.”

“Mr. McNamara?” Lee said. “Are you Mr. McNamara?”

He nodded frantically, clutching Lee’s hand in his clawlike grip. His skin felt loose, and it was as thin as rice paper.

“Do you know where your son is?”

The old man shook his head violently, trying again to speak, producing more pathetic gurgling noises.

“He lives here with you?” Lee asked.

Mr. McNamara nodded, taking Lee’s hand in both of his, babbling incoherently. Lee felt his stomach lurch, and turned to Butts for help.

“Do you mind if we have a look around?” Butts asked.

The old man shook his head, and made a disturbing attempt at a smile, displaying pink gums with a smattering of teeth.

“Are you hungry?” Lee said.

McNamara nodded, tightening his grip on Lee’s hand.

“You go ahead and start looking around,” Lee said to Butts. “I’m going to get him something to eat.”

“Let Diesel do it,” Butts said. “You and me need to case this place as soon as possible.”

Lee called Diesel in from the yard and gave him the task of escorting Mr. McNamara to the kitchen for some food. Diesel said very little, but from the look on his usually impassive face, Lee could tell he was shocked and disturbed by the sight of the old man. He led McNamara gently off to the kitchen, talking to him soothingly, as Lee and Butts headed upstairs.

“It’s gotta be him,” Butts muttered as he lumbered up the steps after Lee. “Otherwise it’s just too goddamn weird.”

Lee agreed, but didn’t say anything as they reached the first floor landing. He turned right, and Butts followed him to the first room on the left. There was a lock on the outside, but it had been broken off, the nails ripped out of the wood, which was old and riddled with termites. It was clear someone had been locked inside that room, but had broken out. Lee and Butts exchanged a look.

“Jesus,” Butts said. “He kept his dad locked up.”

Inside the room was a single bed, a bureau, and a bookcase. It was not uncomfortably furnished—there was a red eiderdown quilt on the bed, and a hand-crocheted wall hanging of a rocking chair, over which were the words
Home Sweet Home.

They continued down the hall to the next room. Pushing open the door, Lee entered a small room with candles on every surface—the bureau, the bookshelves, the small table under the window.

But it was the glass jar on the bookcase that drew his eyes. Hesitating, he approached it. As he got closer, he realized—without question—they had found their UNSUB.

The jar was full of eyeballs floating in a liquid he assumed was formaldehyde.

He looked at Butts. For once, the detective was speechless. He stared at the jar, then looked back at Lee, his face slack.

They had their killer’s identity. Now all they had to do is find him.

Caleb found what he wanted in the back of the little grocery store, and went up to the counter to pay for his two large bottles of Poland Spring water. You could never have too much water with you in the woods—he knew that from long experience. The woman behind the desk had a comforting look. Her face fell into itself, the skin deflated, her plump cheeks puckered in soft, round folds like a baked apple left in the oven too long. The sight of her full, matronly bosom seemed an invitation to lay his weary head on it. Looking at her, he yearned to nestle within those warm folds of femininity forever.

“That will be five ninety-five,” she said, smiling at him.

He handed her a twenty, inhaling her scent as she took his money and counted out the change. Even the smell of her was comforting. It made him think of things baking: the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves rose gently from within the billowy sleeves of her paisley blouse. It brought to mind warm, toasty kitchens at Christmastime, with racks of grinning gingerbread men hardening gently as steam rose and condensed into droplets on windowpanes.

He wondered if his mother had smelled like that, but it was so long ago he couldn’t remember. He wanted to say something to the woman, but when she gave him the change, her fingers brushed his palm, and he felt the heat rise to his forehead. He averted his eyes, mumbled his thanks, and fled the store.

She wouldn’t have smiled so sweetly at him if she had known what secrets he hid in his sinful breast. He hurried out to his car, where Charlotte lay waiting for him. He would take her to his secret place, to the sacred waters, where they would meet their fate together. And then, at last, his transformation would be complete: He would become the Green Man.