The Edge of Sleep (40 page)

“We are. We’re going up in the left-hand lane; the right one is full of cars being stopped by the roadblock.”

“Right.” said Blocker.

Becker waited to a count of three before he said. “Better do it now so we don’t meet anyone coming down when we’re going up.”

“Right!” said Blocker, full understanding coming to him a little late. He reached for the radio as Becker squealed around a curve, into the left lane to pass a truck, then back into the right as an alarmed motorist in the oncoming traffic slammed on his brakes.

The name on the mailbox was “Lynch,” which Karen thought was grimly appropriate to her own frame of mind. An attractive honey blonde was waiting for them on her porch, a girl by her side. A large collie dog lay listlessly at the woman’s feet. It lifted its head at the approach of strangers, then lay back down at a word from the woman.

“She a beauty, or what?” Reese asked under his breath. Karen glanced at him, wondering if his tone bespoke a relationship with the woman named Lynch, wishful thinking, or simple connoisseurship. To Karen’s eye, both mother and daughter were beautiful.

“Hey, Peg,” Reese said shyly, looking at the woman, then quickly away, and Karen realized it was wishful thinking. This woman had far too much natural dignity for a local cop to contend with.

“Astrid saw him,” Peg said, indicating the little girl peeking around from behind her. She spoke directly to Karen, cutting Reese out of the communication loop immediately. “She was playing in the backyard, yesterday. She told me right away, but I’m afraid I didn’t give too much importance to it until I heard about the roadblock. Show them, honey.”

The little girl had been standing behind her mother’s skirt, but stepped forward now as if realizing it was her turn onstage. She possessed her mother’s coloring, the same bright eyes that twinkled with intelligence and barely restrained amusement. She led them directly to the back of the house and pointed toward the ditch that ran next to the railroad tracks.

“He came out of there.” the girl said. “He climbed out, then a hand cotched his leg and pulled him back in.”

Karen shuddered at the image of the hand emerging from the ditch and grabbing ... She told herself it was not Jack. A boy playing with friends. Not her son. Someone else being caught and pulled into the ditch. Not Jack.

“Did you know the boy?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see him before?” Karen asked. The little girl shook her head.

“What did he look like? Can you describe him?” She thought she would have to drag a description out of the girl, helping her every step of the way. Children were notoriously bad witnesses. But Astrid had either been rehearsed or she had a good eye for boys.

“He had brown hair and cut-off jeans and a T-shirt,” she said. “He was maybe a year older than me ... He was cute.”

“The shirt ... ” Peg started, then deferred to her daughter.

“And he was scared,” Astrid continued. “He wasn’t crying, but he was scared.”

“Did you see who grabbed him?” Reese asked.

Astrid answered by speaking to Karen. She, too, seemed to know who was important.

“Just a hand,” she said. “I just saw a hand.”

“You can’t see into the ditch from her angle,” Peg said. She knelt to her daughter’s height to demonstrate.

“Did you see anything on the T-shirt?” Karen asked.

“I’ll show you,” Peg said and turned to the swing set. “It was right here,” she said, puzzled, then she muttered something and called “Erik!”

A second collie came around the corner of the house, a white cloth in his mouth.

“Come here,” Peg said briskly.

“He’s so dumb,” the girl said.

After a brief tussle, the woman got the cloth from the dog’s mouth. She stretched it out and displayed it to Karen. It was a plain white T-shirt, wet from saliva and torn from the dog’s teeth.

Karen looked inside the collar and felt her knees buckle. She clung to Reese for support.

The name written on the collar in laundry pencil was Jack’s.

Karen’s voice crackled over the radio as Becker began the long climb up Winkler Road, passing the string of stalled cars in the right lane.

“Anything yet?” she asked.

Becker took the radio microphone from Blocker’s hand. “I’ll be there in about two minutes. Where are you?”

“I’m with Officer Reese,” she said. Becker wondered if she were driving the other police car, too. If so, Reese was in for a more frightening ride than the one he was giving Blocker. “We found Jack’s T-shirt.” Her voice was strained, as if every word cost her an effort. “We’ve been studying the map. If Lamont was in Becket yesterday and on Winkler Road today, there’s only one area he was likely to be coming from. We think he had to be staying some place along Route 37 unless he was out yesterday just driving around, which isn’t likely. If whoever was driving the car on Winkler that he got out of turned around, chances are he’s heading back to where he came from. It’s probably the only safe spot he knows. We’re going to check out the motels on 37. Reese tells me there are only three.”

“How are you?” Becker asked.

Karen clicked off without answering, but Becker thought he heard the bark of a sardonic laugh before the radio went dead. As they pulled to a stop at the roadblock, Blocker said, “There are four,” but Becker was already out of the car and moving.

“Ronning?”

The man from the Subaru station wagon extended a hand uncertainly. “Odd Ronning,” he said.

Becker took the hand, using it to shake and simultaneously to pull the older man toward the police cruiser.

“Becker, FBI. Can you show me where the man went into the woods?”

“Of course,” Ronning said, already being eased into the backseat. He exchanged nods with Blocker.

There was no place to turn the car around without time-consuming maneuvers, so Becker put the car in reverse and went back down the mountain backwards.

“She was very charming,” Ronning said.

“She?”

“But manipulative, you know? I had the feeling she didn’t want me to see the man get out of the car.”

“There was a woman driver?”

“Of course. Very attractive. Blonde, you know. Lovely smile.”

“Christ,” said Becker.

Blocker watched with growing anxiety as Becker wheeled the car backwards down the hill, his head out the window, the engine screaming in protest at speeds for which reverse gear was never intended. Neither Becker nor Ronning seemed aware that anything unusual was taking place.

“The man?” Becker asked.

“I didn’t get much of a look. Nothing more than a glimpse, really. But he was very big. I’m sure of that.”

“And you said he was carrying something?”

“He carried something against his chest and there was a blanket. I saw the end of it flapping halfway down his leg”

A good man, Becker thought. He wished he could exchange him for Blocker.

“Right here,” said Ronning, and Becker squealed to a halt. “The man ran in right about there,” Ronning pointed.

“Could you tell which way he was headed?”

“Oh, up. Definitely up the mountain.”

“And the woman left the line in her car and went back down the hill?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Becker stood on the road and looked up the mountain. Visibility into the tree line was only a few feet and, from his angle, the top of the mountain could not be seen. Becker took Blocker by the arm.

An angry motorist leaned out of his car and yelled, “What the hell is going on?” Becker ignored him.

“Get on the radio and ask for help, get at least three more men, then start up the mountain.”

“What am I looking for?” Blocker demanded.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” the motorist called.

“Hey, shut up,” Blocker said, then, to Becker, “How do we know this guy didn’t just go into the woods to take a leak, waiting all this time in line ...”

“He took a blanket with him, maybe he went in for a picnic,” Becker said. “Or maybe to take a nap. In that case it won’t take long to find him, will it? Listen, Blocker, if this is Lamont, he’s killed nearly a dozen people by now, including his own family. If you find him, do not assume he’s hiding in the trees because he’s modest about his bathroom habits. And do not try to engage him, either. Just get on your walkie-talkie and tell headquarters, then keep an eye on him, understand?”

“You never mentioned anything about this being a killer. I thought we were after a kidnapper.” Blocker rubbed the handle of his service automatic nervously.

“Look, I know this is not the sort of thing you run across around here, but it’s what you’ve got on your hands now. Just find him and keep a safe distance. Nothing will happen to you.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“I’m going to get behind him, if I can. Now call for help, please.”

Becker stopped again as he was about to get in the car.

“What did you mean, ‘there are four’?”

“What?”

“Earlier you said ‘There are four.’ What were you talking about?”

“There are four motels on Route 37, not three.”

“Doesn’t Reese know that?”

“We usually don’t consider the Melba Inn. I mean, when people ask us about a place to stay for the night, we send them to the other three. A tourist wouldn’t be happy in the Melba”

“Tell her that,” Becker said, then, “Never mind. I’ll tell her.”

Becker called Karen on the radio while squealing backwards down the mountain but got no response. He relayed the message to headquarters and asked them to pass it on. As he came to a stop, he wished they had more men. Karen should not be searching motels herself; she should be running the show. Not that she had much choice; Reese was hardly the caliber of man to trust with the job and all of the State Patrol men they had were manning roadblocks. The men from the Bureau had yet to show up and Becker wondered if, ironically, they hadn’t been slowed by the traffic jams caused by the roadblocks.

Becker eased the cruiser off the road, into a drainage ditch, and got out of the car. If he had judged properly and Lamont was going over the mountain to reach the only escape route on the other side, Becker now had the angle on him. If he hurried, he might be able to intercept Lamont before he started his downward leg.

Becker slipped into the woods and began to work upwards and around the mountain in a long spiral path.

The climb was steep but not arduous in the beginning, and Ash was able to do it with Tommy still clutched in his arms. The closer he got to the top, however, the steeper the slope became and he was required to grab at trees and rocks to maintain his balance. He tried it one-handed for a time, but when he stumbled and fell directly onto the boy. Ash gave it up. He took the bedspread off and studied Tommy for injuries. The boy had only had the wind knocked out of him and he looked around now, wild-eyed, squinting at the first light in an hour but anxious to see where he was.

“We’ll leave this here,” Ash said, as much to himself as to the boy. He folded the bedspread carefully, then put it down atop a rock. He wanted to be able to tell Dee where he had left it so that they could come back and get it. They still had the blanket on the floor of the car, but she might want the spread as well. Dee was careful about not keeping things that did not belong to her.

He kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he looked back down the mountain. There was not much to see through the fully leaved trees, but Ash could hear voices a long way away. Men were calling back and forth to each other, giving directions. He wondered if they were coming up the mountain after him. Dee had said to go fast. Ash got to his feet and pointed the boy up the mountain.

“You go first,” he said. “I’ll be behind you to catch you. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.”

Becker paused to catch his breath. He had been running when he could through the woods and up the increasing slope during his long spiral around the mountain. Now he was at the point he guessed to be opposite Lamont’s ascending path on the other side. From here on it was straight up. If he had judged correctly, Lamont would be coming down on a route close enough to Becker’s own that Becker would be able to see him, or at least hear him, when he crested the peak and started down. The peak itself was problematic at this juncture since Becker could see only a few yards ahead of himself through the trees.

Becker listened carefully, holding his breath a moment, trying to catch the sound of branches breaking, loosened rocks, heavy feet in the dead leaves and needles of the forest floor. Anyone coming from the top of the mountain would have to come the first third of the way down on the seat of his pants, clutching at handholds as he came. He would be as easy to hear as a small avalanche. If the man was not in a hurry, he could descend backwards, of course, picking his way carefully—and silently—but that would take time and Becker assumed Lamont was going to be traveling fast.

Hearing only the normal sounds of the woods, Becker started upwards, reaching for tree trunks and roots to propel himself forward up the ever-increasing slope. He had dropped to his hands and knees, digging for handholds in the rocky forest soil when the trees abruptly fell away entirely and he faced a sheer wall of stone. Becker stopped, his breath thundering in his ears from the effort of his climb, trying to assess his situation.

He had reached the point of some geologic accident where the steepness of the incline, the force of gravity, and the effects of erosion had conspired to rip away part of the mountain face and leave a cliff as sheer as if it had been sliced from a cake by a giant saber.

A few saplings had sprouted from crevices in the rock, jutting out at very shallow angles before curving almost perpendicularly and shooting directly skyward. Tufts of weeds and grass were scattered here and there upon the vertical face, and, most incongruously, several small clusters of flowers, their bouquets taunting anyone foolish enough to climb up after them; but for the most part, the escarpment was jagged, reddish-brown rock, high and wide and forbidding, filling Becker’s vision in either direction before it disappeared around the curve of the mountain. The crest of the mountain had split and crumbled like a rotting molar biting into a stone.