The Burning Man (14 page)

It wasn’t exactly a lie. She just couldn’t put her finger on where she might have seen him before. But there was something disturbingly familiar about him. Something that made her feel anxious, and a little nauseous.

Mostly, she just wanted to get back to her room and listen to the tape.

“Okay, listen,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “I’m gonna look into this, and see what I can find out about this so-called detective. Meanwhile, I want you to be extremely careful. Don’t go anywhere alone. Got it?”

“Got it,” Olivia replied.

When they got back to the dorm, Olivia was not surprised to find the camera on Chelsea’s desk, and Chelsea herself absent. That girl was the queen of distraction. Especially male distraction.

“Have you seen Chelsea?” she asked Mrs. Gilbert.

Mrs. Gilbert shook her head.

“If she doesn’t show up by midnight, you let me know,” she said. “That will be her third time breaking curfew, just this month.”

“I will,” Olivia lied. She didn’t bother to contradict Mrs. Gilbert, but Chelsea had, in fact, stayed out all night twice that many times, and hadn’t been caught.

“Olivia,” Mrs. Gilbert said, pausing with her hand on the door to the room. “Is there something going on with you that I ought to know about?”

Olivia shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she said.

She hoped it was true. But as soon as Mrs. Gilbert had closed the door, she pulled the little tape recorder from her boot, and forgot all about the mysterious detective.

Kieran had been determined to go with Olivia to the police station, but she argued that she’d be much better off on her own. Eventually, she’d won the argument by agreeing to let him drive her into town, and wait for her in the car.

When she arrived, she had a hard time suppressing her excitement. This was her calling—what she was meant to do with her life. Any opportunity to work with law enforcement in the administration of justice made her feel like she was in her element.

The station was a small, unassuming, white-brick building that looked more like the office of an upscale pediatrician than a place that dealt with crime and death. There was a parking lot in the back for the two clean, well-maintained patrol cars, as well as a hidden rear entrance. Probably so the occasional ne’er-do-well who got arrested for public intoxication could be ushered into the building without besmirching the Norman Rockwell set-dressing.

Olivia walked around to the front.

There she found a neat, old-fashioned and almost apologetic sign that read
TOWN OF WESTLEY POLICE DEPARTMENT.
If it had been summer, the pretty leaded-glass front door would have been wreathed in flowering vines. Now, in the harsh grip of winter, the twisted vines were bare and thorned with ice.

Inside there was a small waiting area and an antique desk with a rosy-cheeked young man wearing a pristine navy-blue uniform that looked like he’d just bought it that morning.

She strode purposefully up to the desk, head held high.

“I’d like to report a series of assaults at the Deerborn Academy,” she said.

The young officer’s pretty blue eyes went huge, his pink cheeks turning pinker.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, um, okay, miss.” He picked up the phone and fumbled with the buttons like he’d forgotten what they were for. “Please have a seat, and someone will be with you shortly.”

Olivia did what he asked, choosing the sleek leather chair closest to the door and setting her messenger bag on the glossy floor at her feet. The young man muttered something into the phone, and then went to work meticulously rearranging the three items on his desk. He scrupulously avoided looking at Olivia.

After about five minutes, a woman appeared in the doorway behind the desk. She wore a dowdy tan suit instead of a uniform, and had her thin, shoulder-length blond hair tucked behind her large ears. Her face was birdy and sharp, with very pale blue eyes behind nearly invisible blond lashes. No makeup. Her gaze was direct, no nonsense.

“Detective Elyse Sherman,” she said, putting out a ringless hand for Olivia to shake.

Olivia stood and took the offered hand. It was cool, her grip just a little too firm.

“Olivia Dunham,” she said.

“Follow me, please.”

She led Olivia past the desk and down a narrow hallway to an unmarked door. Inside was a nearly bare room with a bolted down metal table and two chairs. On the right side of the room was a large mirror. Obviously two-way glass, Olivia mused.

An interrogation room.

“Sorry to have to bring you in here,” Detective Sherman said. “But our facilities are very limited, and I figured you’d feel more comfortable talking here in private, instead of in the office I share with my male colleagues.”

“Thank you,” Olivia said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs. “It’s okay.”

“Good,” Detective Sherman said. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me why you’re here.”

“Well,” Olivia said, putting her bag on the table and removing a large red file folder. “I’ve prepared a detailed written statement, including information about both my own experience with the perpetrators, just last night, and a previous assault against an unknown female which occurred on the evening of January 7th, for which I have eyewitness testimony.

“I’ve also provided a copy of the audio cassette I recorded of the perpetrators discussing their intentions, and joking about past incidents. Here, you can see that I transcribed the tape for you, as well. The sound quality isn’t all that great because I had to hide the recorder in my boot.”

“Slow down a second, kid,” Detective Sherman said, a small thin smile appearing in one corner of her narrow lips. “You after my job here, or what?”

“Well,” Olivia said with a sheepish shrug. “I guess I kind of am. When I get older anyway.”

“We could use more women on the job,” the detective said, the smile widening and pale eyes crinkling at their corners. “But that’s not what matters right now. Right now, I just need you to tell me—in your own words— exactly what happened to you.”

There was a knock on the door, and a balding guy with glasses stuck his head into the room.

“Elyse?” he said. “Can I please have a word with you?”

“Now?” Detective Sherman frowned.

“Now
,” the bald guy said.

“Sorry, kid,” she said to Olivia. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” Olivia said, straightening her papers.

Detective Sherman slipped out of the room, leaving her alone.

She sat there for several minutes, going over her statement and thinking about the look on Brent’s face when the cops showed up at school to arrest him.

Then the door to the interrogation room opened, but it wasn’t Detective Sherman, or even the bald guy.

It was the man who’d scared off Brent and Tyler the night before. The dark-haired cop from Tampa, who’d said his name was Jimmy Obejas.

He smiled at her.

“Hello, Olivia,” he said.

Olivia just sat there, stunned for a moment. Then she stood up slowly, backing away from him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“My job,” he replied. He was holding a pair of handcuffs in his left hand.

Detective Sherman appeared in the doorway behind him. Her eyes were narrowed, and she was wearing a slight frown.

“I’m taking this juvenile into custody,” Obejas said over his shoulder. Before the words could sink in, he stepped over to Olivia and slapped the handcuffs on her wrists. “She’s wanted on an outstanding arson warrant from Jacksonville, Florida.”

“Arson?” Olivia frowned. “Are you crazy?
What
arson?” She turned toward the detective. “Can’t you see this isn’t right? This guy was hanging around my school in the middle of the night. Following me.”

“Nothing personal,” he said with a big, smarmy smile. “I told you, it’s just my job.” Then he manhandled her out into the hallway, were the bald guy was waiting, and looking nervous.

“You can’t just let him take me!” Olivia protested, struggling and shifting her gaze back and forth between Detective Sherman and the bald guy. “Where are the interstate extradition documents? Doesn’t the indictment need to be certified by the governor, before he’s allowed to take me? I want to talk to a lawyer!”

“You’re still a juvenile,” Obejas said. “So official certification isn’t required. And don’t worry, you’ll be allowed to speak with an attorney as soon as we get back to Jacksonville.”

“This isn’t right!” Olivia said again, planting her feet and turning toward Detective Sherman. “It’s not right, is it? Please don’t let him do this! Just take a little time to look into this. Make some calls. I can wait in the fish tank and you can put an armed guard on me so I don’t try to escape. You can even handcuff me to the table.”

The lights flickered for a moment, and a hint of fear seemed to flit across Obejas’s face. Olivia paused and took a deep breath to calm herself.

“If it’s all on the level, and you find out that I’m really a fugitive, then I’ll go quietly, I swear. What does it matter if he takes me back to Jacksonville now, or in an hour?”

“She’s right, Jim,” the detective said. “Maybe we should...”

“Listen, honey,” the bald guy replied, cutting her off. “Obejas warned me she’d try something. She’s pulled scams like this down in Florida—he gave me the full details.

“This is a quiet little town,” he continued, “and it’s my job to make sure it stays that way. The sooner this mess is out of my jurisdiction, the happier I’ll be. And the happier I am, the happier you’ll be.” He turned back to Olivia and gave her a sneering once-over, then nodded to the dark-haired man.

“Detective Obejas, I hereby remand this juvenile into your custody. You’re free to go.”

“Good call,” Obejas said. “It’s nice to deal with a professional.” He shot Detective Sherman a condescending look, and the bald guy just smiled.

“No!” Olivia cried. “No, wait, please.”

Obejas gave a jerk that pulled her off-balance, dragging her away. She fought, grim and silent, against the cold steel cuffs and his implacable gloved grip on her upper arm.

“Wait,” the bald guy said.

Olivia froze, her heart leaping.

“Take her out through the back door,” he said, pointing down the hall in the opposite direction. “Please. Let’s not have an ugly public scene.”

As Obejas dragged her toward the exit, she twisted back to look for Detective Sherman. The woman was looking down, cheeks flushed an angry crimson.

She wouldn’t look at Olivia.

* * *

The creepy cop held Olivia’s arm with his left hand and led her out the back door, into the parking lot. As soon as they were out of sight, he used his teeth and pulled the glove off his right hand, revealing a prosthetic hook. She stared in shock.

“Do you remember me now, Olivia?” he asked.

This was Chelsea’s one-armed peeper. The urban legend bogeyman with a hook for a hand.

But why was he asking her if she remembered him? She’d never seen him before last night. Or had she? She felt a sudden sharp pulse in her skull—that same strange headache she’d experienced the night before, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

She barely had a second to process this jumble of thoughts when he used the hook to grab her ponytail, wrenching her chin up high and steering her by the hair while his good hand gripped her upper right arm. He was very careful to stay far to the side and slightly behind her. She thought she might be able to land a heel to the shin, or maybe stomp on his foot, but was afraid it would just piss him off.

The building was blocking Kieran from seeing her and her predicament. Her mind raced, trying to come up with some method to signal him, but couldn’t think of anything.

The one-armed cop propelled her toward a dark blue sedan, and she was sure that once he got her in that car, he could do anything he wanted with her.

Obejas opened the passenger side door and shoved her inside, using her ponytail as a handle to push her head down.

Sitting on the passenger seat with her cuffed hands squashed against the small of her back, heart pounding and sick from adrenalin, she realized that she only had one chance for escape. She felt like a trapped animal, so she did the only thing she could think of.

She gave up—stopped resisting, and made it clear that she was beaten.

When he started to close the door, he bent down to look in through the window at her, a smug smile on his face. Then she bent her legs, pivoted swiftly on her hips and planted both feet against the door, shoving as hard as she could.

Because he had been bending down slightly, the corner of the door nailed him in the temple instead of the chest. He went down, splayed out on the concrete like he’d been shot.

Olivia lunged out of the car, rolled to her feet, and ran.

Kieran was reading
Watchmen.
He had the engine running to keep warm while he waited for Olivia to come out of the police station, but he was having trouble concentrating on the story. He kept on looking up to check that vine-covered doorway.

He had to admit that he was excited by the idea of being off-campus with her. It was almost like a date. Perhaps after she was done at the station, he would just casually ask if she was hungry and see if she wanted to stop at the Copper Pot for some breakfast. Not make a big deal out of it or anything, just get a bite.

Not like a
real
date or anything.

Except that he wanted it to be a date. He wanted people in the restaurant to see him with her, to watch him pull out her chair so she could sit down, and wish they were him.

These were the pleasant thoughts drifting through his head when a sudden frantic thumping on the driver’s side door made him jump so abruptly that he banged his head.

It was Olivia!

She was kicking his door, hands behind her back and her face pale and frantic. He pressed the button to roll down the window, wondering how she’d gotten out of the station without him seeing her. But any questions were obliterated by adrenalin when she unexpectedly dove through the open window, sprawling across his lap.