The FBI Thrillers Collection (145 page)

“I could find it,” Rafe said, “not just one or two stupid coins.”

Rob punched his brother in the arm. “There isn’t any treasure, Dumbo. It’s a myth, otherwise someone would have dug it up by now.”

“But that’s the thing about treasure,” Ruth said, her voice dropping low, “sometimes you wonder how all the talk of a treasure even got started. An old guy in a tavern two hundred years ago spun a story so he could get a free mug of ale? And then you sometimes wonder if it isn’t all magic. When you think it’s magic, you’re ready. You go to Fauquier County and find William Kirk’s will that’s still there, and read that he not only left his wife a large property, he also left her a big bundle of currency. Where is it?”

Rafe said, “Didn’t the wife know her husband was a pirate? Everyone knows pirates always hide their gold, like Captain Kidd did somewhere on Long Island. She shouldn’t have sold the farm, she was stupid.”

Ruth grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe she didn’t believe there was a treasure, like Rob. Or maybe she believed, she simply didn’t know how to find it.”

Dix said, “Knowing Ruth for only three days, boys, you can already tell the most important quality of a successful treasure hunter: You’ve got to believe. You’ve got to be the eternal optimist, and you have to be able to stand lots of disappointment.” He cocked his eyebrow at her.

Ruth stared at him, lounged back in his chair, his fingers laced over his lean belly, his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

She started to say something, but found she had to clear her throat first. “Well, yes, that’s about it,” she admitted.

“So you think the gold’s still there, Ruth?” Rob wanted to know.

She nodded. “Oh yes, it’s there. I think it was in leather pouches, a number of them, and some of them have split open, scattering the coins. But the big cache is under there, still waiting.”

Dix rose. “With that, it’s time for some carrot cake from Millie’s Deli. You can each take a piece, then it’s off to do your homework. We’ve got some work to do down here ourselves.”

Rob stopped long enough on the bottom step of the stairs to tell Ruth that Billy McCleland had come by today to fix the window frame in his bedroom. “No more cold leaks,” he told her.

When the boys were out of earshot, the four adults moved into the living room, taking coffee and tea with them. The house was warm and quiet, except for Brewster’s snoring from his seat of honor on Ruth’s lap. Savich began, “So Dix, you told us the doctor at Loudoun County Community Hospital did a toxicology screen on Ruth when she was admitted. You hear from him yet?”

Dix nodded. “Actually, it was the ME who called earlier. He ran what was left of your blood sample, Ruth. You had the same drug in your system that Erin Bushnell did—a drug called BZ.”

Sherlock said, “I don’t know much about it except I think it’s a gas they used in Vietnam that affects the nervous system. Did he tell you more about it, Sheriff?”

Dix paused for a moment, smiled at her. “Actually, Sherlock, while Savich’s corn on the cob was boiling, I googled it on the Internet. I printed some of it out, so you can look at it later. It’s officially called quinuclidinyl benzilate, but for obvious reasons it’s known simply as BZ. It’s a colorless and odorless gas that’s usually delivered as an aerosol and was developed for the military in the 1960s. It works fairly quickly, causing increased heart rate, blurry vision, lack of coordination. The unusual thing is that it’s what they call a psychochemical—it affects perception and thought, causes hallucinations, confusion, forgetfulness, and eventually stupor.

“BZ didn’t turn out to be much use in war, though, because the effects are unpredictable, ranging from overwhelming fear and panic to all-out rage that led exposed soldiers to attack without regard for their own safety.

“The Russians used an agent similar to BZ against the Afghan guerrillas during the eighties, and get this—it’s possible they pumped this gas into that theater during the hostage crisis in Moscow, probably in really high concentrations because they ended up with hundreds of people dead.”

“But Erin wasn’t dead when she was stabbed,” Sherlock said.

“No, but there was a lot of it in her system, more than in yours, Ruth. From what you told us about how terrifying it was for you in that cave chamber, how you were imagining God knows what coming after you, I hate to think what Erin Bushnell went through.”

Ruth let out a long breath. “So I guess I didn’t just go crazy. But how does anyone get ahold of a gas like this?”

Dix shrugged. “The ME said chemicals like this are available from pharmaceutical companies and on the Internet. Apparently they have some legitimate uses for research. It’s unusual enough to warrant looking into but it’s unlikely the BZ is from a nice, clean local source that would identify our killer.”

Savich nodded. “Since you got a lower dose than Erin, Ruth, you probably got the residue from the gas he used on her. Maybe he came back later to check on his handiwork and found you, freaked out, maybe unconscious. Maybe he bashed you on the head or he found you already injured, and hauled you out of there.”

“But why not simply kill me and leave me in there with Erin?”

Savich said slowly, “Because that was her tomb, Ruth, not yours. All hers.”

“That would be really sick, Dillon.”

“Yes,” he said, “it would be.”

Sherlock sat forward, her teacup balanced on her knee. “So you think this tomb idea has something to do with his embalming her?”

Dix said, “Dr. Himple said he didn’t actually embalm her. He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. I’ll try to explain this correctly.” Dix pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket, perused it for a moment. “Okay, when a funeral home embalms a body, they make small incisions in the carotid artery and the jugular vein, thread a tube into the carotid to pump in the embalming fluid, and drain the blood out through the jugular vein. It takes about three gallons of embalming fluid to thoroughly disinfect and preserve a body. They also put fluid in the body cavities, a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, and other solvents.

“The thing is, our murderer didn’t do a thorough job of it. He made the small incisions in her carotid and jugular, pumped in about a gallon of embalming fluid, let a bit of blood drain out the jugular vein, then called it a day.”

Sherlock said slowly, staring into the fireplace, “So he either didn’t know how to do the procedure correctly or it was some kind of ritual, enough to give him the taste of the process, to give him the satisfaction.”

Savich nodded. “Yes, and he posed her. He may have considered it part of a ceremony, probably done with a good deal of gravity on his part, almost reverence. He may have wanted to preserve the body for a while before he buried it somewhere.”

Dix said, “I don’t like the sound of that. A ritual? I was thinking this guy may have done this before, but I was hoping you’d disagree.”

“We don’t know for sure, Dix, but it’s got all the ear-marks,” Ruth said. “Did Dr. Himple tell you if the incision sites were sutured?”

“No, I don’t think so. But he did mention that the stab wound in her chest had no blood on it; it had been swabbed clean.”

“Part of the ritual then,” Ruth said. “He did a thorough job. So, Dix, are there any funeral homes in Maestro?”

“Of course. Tommy Oppenheimer is director of Peaceful Field Funeral Home, on Broadmoor Street. He’s my deputy Penny’s husband, a good guy, a bit high-strung, overprotective of Penny, but okay. I’ll ask him if he’s had anyone asking questions about embalming, or if he’s heard anyone in his business mention any strange employees they might have now or recently fired.”

Sherlock said, “If I were you, I’d tell Dr. Himple to threaten all his techs with pain and dismemberment if any of them open their mouths about finding embalming fluids in her.”

Dix shook his head. “Unbelievable, the loony actually performed an embalming rite on her. That is something her parents will never find out about.”

Sherlock said, “You should go personally and speak to the techs, Dix. That might keep it under wraps longer, particularly if you guilt them about the parents finding out, and what it would do to them. Dillon will get MAX on the embalming process, and find out if this MO has ever appeared before.”

Dix stretched his back, crossed his legs at the ankles. “When I left New York, I thought I’d left the crazies behind. Was I wrong, or what? If Ruth hadn’t gone into Winkel’s Cave treasure hunting on that particular day, Erin Bushnell would have simply disappeared forever. No one would have had a clue what happened to her—did she pick up and leave with no word for anyone, or run off with some guy no one ever saw, or—did someone take her away?” He stopped dead, looked down at the floor, his hands frozen in fists on his thighs. Ruth saw he was pale, markedly so. There was something very wrong here. Then she knew. “Dix, what happened to your wife Christie?”

Dix didn’t answer for the longest time, didn’t move, didn’t look at any of them. Finally, he looked up at Ruth standing beside him. “My wife—Christie—she disappeared nearly three years ago.”

“And you don’t know what happened to her, do you?”

He shook his head. “She was simply gone one day, like Erin Bushnell would have been if you hadn’t happened along. We conducted a huge criminal investigation, did everything humanly possible—I even hired a private detective I’d heard about out of Chicago—but no one ever found a single clue, a single lead, nothing. For nearly three years.”

He looked up then at Savich and Sherlock. “From the minute Ruth found Erin Bushnell, I’ve been asking myself if this was what happened to Christie.”

Savich cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his wife. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that uncertainty, the pain of not knowing. It’s got to have been really rough for you and your boys. But you’ve done a remarkable job with them. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’d be thinking along the same lines as you if it were Sherlock. But the fact is, I think it’s highly unlikely that Christie’s disappearance had anything to do with Erin Bushnell’s murder.”

Ruth felt tears burn her throat and swallowed them. She smiled at him. “Dix, did I ever tell you how very grateful I am that they dumped me in your woods? Hey, I never would have met your boys otherwise and had the opportunity to bleach the blue out of your boxers.”

There was quiet laughter. Ruth thought it felt very good.

As he helped Sherlock on with her jacket, Savich said, “We have a very unbalanced individual here, guys, but someone functioning normally enough to send those two men here to the house after you. It would behoove all of us to be very careful, you in particular, Ruth. He’s tried to kill you once, and he may try again.”

“What would be his reason now?” Ruth asked. “We found his cave, we found Erin, and I’ve told you everything I know. Why would he mess with an FBI agent now?”

Dix said, “Savich is right. You’re being logical, Ruth. I doubt we can say the same thing about someone who pumped embalming fluid into Erin’s body. Fact is, we can’t be sure about anything he might do.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Ruth said.

Dix said, “Savich, what are the chances of your profilers at Quantico taking a shot at this?”

“I’ll call Steve in the morning.”

After Savich and Sherlock left, Dix walked Ruth to Rob’s bedroom. He paused by the closed door of Rafe’s room to listen. “It’s too quiet,” he said. “Usually I can hear at least one of them snoring.”

She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I am very, very sorry about Christie. You believe she’s dead, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes, I know she is. There is no way Christie would leave me and the boys. Not willingly. Someone took her, someone killed her. I just don’t know who.”

There was nothing she could say, and so Ruth simply pressed against him, held him for a very long time.

When she finally stepped back, she kept her hand on his arm for a moment. “You don’t think there’s any danger from me staying here tonight, do you?”

He heard the hint of fear in her voice and shook his head. “I’m thinking you could kick your way out of a bar fight, Special Agent. But I’m not about to take any more chances with you or the boys. I’ve got my deputies on a rotating schedule. They’ll be checking the house every hour, not to worry.”

She nodded. “I need to pick up some clothes tomorrow, Dix. Rob needs his stuff back.”

“No problem,” Dix said, and turned away. He paused, turned back. “You okay, Ruth?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Are you okay, Dix?”

He said nothing, merely nodded.

When he lay in his bed, Dix listened to the familiar sounds of the night and wondered what was happening to his peaceful town. And he thought of Christie. He’d never before spoken of her as he had tonight. Somehow he felt comforted, a bit freer of the numbing pain, a bit more open to life again. He still had Christie’s photo on his desk at work, taken with his boys only a month before she vanished. He looked at her every day, and every day he wondered what had happened to her.

 

IT WAS TEN-THIRTY Tuesday morning before the four of them met for a late breakfast at Maurie’s Diner on Main Street. Savich sipped tea, set down his cup. “MAX found us instances of stabbing and gassing, of course, even embalming, by a parade of psychopaths you don’t want to know about, but never all together, at least that we know about. I make that caveat because if not for Ruth, we might never have found Erin Bushnell.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Dix said as he spread butter on wheat toast.

Savich shook his head. “I’ve learned that the killers among us have limitless imagination.”

Ruth laid down her fork, leaned her chin on her laced fingers. “And that’s the whole point. It’s his own special deal, his way of making himself unique, his own creation.”