The Shadowkiller (45 page)

B
efore going into the house and retrieving Ty's rifle, Ronnie had broken the window on the Lexus and retrieved her phone.

“I called nine-one-one,” she told Ty.

Between coughs, Ty expressed the bottom line. “They…won't be…here…in time.”

Inside the smoking house Ty and Ronnie climbed the stairs through the flames and propped the ladder against the wall. Ty started unsteadily up the ladder and Ronnie stopped him.

“I'll go. You're shaky, plus we'd have to make a bigger hole for you.”

Ty resisted for a second, but as usual, she was right. Then Ronnie did an odd thing. She turned and ran down the stairs, yelling over her shoulder,“I'll be right back!”

Ty watched, perplexed and frustrated as his wife negotiated the walls of flame wrapping the stairs and disappeared around the corner. He looked up to the ceiling and screamed, “We're coming, baby. Hang on!”

A moment later Ronnie reappeared, taking the stairs two at a time. Carrying a pair of infrared goggles and a claw hammer, she scurried up the ladder, and with machinelike intensity slammed holes in the drywall ceiling. As soon as the hole was large enough, dark, thick smoke billowed forth, punctuating how short their time was. In less than a minute Ronnie had torn out a hole big enough to wriggle through. She pulled the goggles down and pushed off the ladder, disappearing into the smoking aperture. Ty held the ladder and ran his hand nervously over his face and through his hair, the tension unbearable.

Ronnie coughed hard and yelled for her daughter, the black and gray infrared images of roiling smoke and heat the only thing in her field of view. The smoke was overwhelming, and with a sense of terror she knew she could endure the noxious mix of smoke and ash for only a moment longer before passing out. She screamed and choked her words out, “Meredith! Meredith!” Her single thought of losing her daughter so terrible, she was ready to die to prevent that outcome.

Then a bit of grayish white ten feet away, rising a few inches above the joist, caught her eye. As she quickly scurried toward it, her foot slipped between the joists and crashed through drywall. For a split second she almost plummeted through the ceiling but then regained her footing and made her way to the form. It was Meredith. She grabbed the little girl and hauled her over the joists to her point of entry. Just as she got to the hole, a hand reached inside and pulled her daughter through. A choking Ronnie followed Ty down the ladder, and they ran out of the house, Ty now half carrying her along with Meredith slung partly over his shoulder.

Reaching safety, Ty set Meredith on the ground and performed mouth-to-mouth. A moment later the little girl snapped back to life, her lungs coughing out their poison. Ronnie lay down, still coughing, and hugged her baby and sobbed. Ty leaned down and enfolded them in his arms as they all cried with joy and release.

Though Chris had been ordered by his mother to stay in the garage, he exited his hiding place after figuring out the danger had passed. Five minutes later the first fire crew in their big White diesel crashed through the chain-link gate, and a procession of trucks followed them up the drive.

An ambulance arrived with three police cars, and in seconds paramedics were attending to Meredith. Ronnie held her daughter's hand as one of the paramedics placed an oxygen mask on her face. The man gently lifted Ronnie's comforting hand away and indicated they needed room.

“She's gonna be fine, ma'am,” he assured her.

Ronnie smiled thankfully at him, then embraced her husband, his clothes wet and burned. Another paramedic approached and helped Ty to the ambulance. His hair was singed and he looked like hell, but his burns were only superficial.

Then from around the corner stumbled a deeply shaken but very much alive Swedish au pair. A paramedic rushed to help Greta.

The fire department quickly contained the blaze in the upper story and extinguished the one downstairs. One of the crews had driven their rig around back, and their lights blazed over the area. Two firemen stared into the pool at the floating behemoth, one holding the huge Holland & Holland rifle that had ended its reign of terror. A young sheriff's deputy walked over and stood next to them.

Gazing down at the giant corpse adrift face down in the bloodstained water, the young deputy asked the fireman tending to the rifle, “I heard the wife shot it. That the gun?”

The fireman looked over. The deputy's name badge said “Alexander.” The man nodded.

“May I see it?” asked Deputy Bill Alexander.

The fireman handed him the heavy rifle. “It's all yours.”

Bill took his eyes off the extraordinary body in the pool long enough to examine the rifle. He knew his guns and was aware of both the rarity and power of this firearm.

“Yeah,” he said to the fireman but more to himself, “that's about the right size.”

T
he sun was about as hot as it got on planet Earth and that was just right for Ty. As he floated through time and space, his only connection to reality was the brilliant fiery orange dazzling his retina through closed eyes. A rivulet of perspiration ran down his jaw and dropped from his chin onto his bare chest. Something tickled his forearm—fingers—and they moved slowly toward his hand, a pinky hooking his.

“Where are the kids?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“Back at the resort,” said Ronnie, the soothing calm in her voice something Ty hadn't been used to in a long time. “You dozed off,” she continued. “They went to some sort of swimming party with those kids from London.”

“Are they…,” he started.

“Highly supervised. They're fine,” she said anticipating him.

“How about me? You let me fall asleep in the sun, huh?”

“I've been basting you,” she said, playfully squirting him with a glob of cool sunscreen.

His eyes opened and he grabbed her arm, pulling her close. The beach was sugar, the ocean an opal, all under a cloudless Caribbean sky.

“Now you've got to rub it in.”

Ty was surprised but pleased that Ronnie had doffed the top of her bathing suit. “Going native, huh?” he said with a smile.

Ronnie rubbed the lotion slowly. “Hey, there's no one around, why not? I could use a little color.”

Ty sat up in his beach chair and pivoted, putting his hands to her waist while she continued smoothing in sunscreen. He leaned in and kissed a bare breast.

“Hmmm. Cocoa butter.”

Ronnie smiled lustfully. “Yeah. Want to taste the other one?”

He looked into her eyes. The whimsy of the moment melted away as they saw each other again with the same powerful attraction as the first time, only heightened by love that had been tempered in the fires. Ty pulled Ronnie to him and they rolled off the chaises onto the sand. It had been a long time, but they were one again. They made love while the palms watched and whispered their secrets in the breeze.

Ten days after Mac had been admitted near death, his doctor pronounced him a miracle patient and released him. Girded in three casts, he was sent home to be tended by an in-home nurse for the next twelve weeks. He'd hoped for a young, cute one, but his nurse Marlene, a stocky married woman in her late fifties, settled in quickly and amused Mac to no end with her acerbic wit.

Mac sat propped in his chair eating lunch in front of the television when a knock sent Marlene to the door. She opened it to find a Japanese news crew.

“Pardon me,” said their impeccably suited reporter, “but may I have an audience with Detective Mac Schneider?”

Since the doorway didn't have a sightline to Mac in his chair, Marlene ad-libbed.

“I'm sorry, but he left this morning.”

The man furrowed his brow. “But he is recovering, no? I did not know he could travel.”

Marlene's civilian clothes didn't betray her role as a nurse.

“Oh, he's all fine now,” she fibbed. “He underwent some sort of new electric current therapy. It's the latest thing in this country. You oughta do a story on it. It totally healed him in two hours. He went off to play racquetball, then I believe he's leaving to go scuba diving in Mexico. He'll be back in a month. I'll tell him you stopped by. Thanks,” and she closed the door on the befuddled newsmen.

Mac chuckled. “You should have your own show.”

“Me? No. You're the celebrity. But I can't keep doing that with all of them. Are you ever going to give any interviews?”

Mac looked away. “Maybe, yeah. Eventually.”

During Mac's hospital stay, Ty had stopped by a few times, including the day he and his family headed to the British Virgin Islands for a month. They mostly talked about Ben. There was no postmortem, no guilt, just regrets that he was gone. Ty gave Mac Ben's old cigarette lighter, saying,“This saved my life. I have a suspicion it'll help you heal faster.”

Mac smiled softly and took it. “You know, it may sound a little nuts, but I think Ben's still around, keepin' his eye on us.”

Ty nodded. “Yeah, I feel him too.”

During Ty's last visit before the trip, Mac thanked him for saving him and Ty shook it off with “You would have done the same.” When Ty stood to leave, instead of shaking his hand as they usually did, he hesitated, then leaned down and hugged Mac, signifying a bond between two men who trusted each other with their lives.

Snohomish County Sheriff Barkley came by and offered his apologies for the way Mac had been treated, then chided him for not coming forward.

“Would you have believed me?” Mac asked.

The chief paused for a moment. “Hell no.”

Both men laughed.

Then the mood got somber as they discussed the hero's funeral Carillo received, with more than two thousand peace officers from around the country in attendance.

When Mac found the energy, he phoned Kelly Carillo to offer his condolences.

“He really admired you, Mac,” she said. “You were like the big brother he never had. He was always competing with you, but he loved you.”

They spoke warmly of Karl, but Mac knew a thousand things about her husband he would never tell her. And she knew a thousand things Mac didn't know. It was left that Karl Carillo had been a good husband, father, and cop.

“Want some more soup?” asked Marlene, pulling Mac back from his thoughts.

He handed her his bowl. “Yeah, it's good. Thanks.”

As Marlene went into the kitchen, Mac looked up. “You like being married?” he asked.

“It's got its ups and downs,” she answered, dishing up his soup. “Maybe I do. But what do I know? I've been married thirty-six years. I don't know the difference.”

She returned, setting the bowl on the lamp table, and Mac's face warmed for the first time in a while. “Yeah,” he said. “You know.”

Marlene's eyes smiled and she went back to the bedroom to straighten up.
He's such a nice guy, his ex must have been an idiot.

Watching television with the sound muted, Mac sipped his soup and thought about Kris. Of all the victims spirited into the depths of the woods, she was the only one whose remains were found. They were collected by a search team, but her TV station dawdled in handling arrangements, so Mac made a few calls and had them quickly shipped to her folks.

Mac wondered, if not for a few quirks of fate, what things might have been like with her. Then, just as quickly as the musing came over him, he didn't want to think about it, any of it. He blanked it all out, turned up the TV volume, and continued eating his soup.

Greta Sigardsson, aside from chronic neck pain, emerged relatively unscathed from her spectacular encounter. After spending a day in the hospital for observation, she had planned on taking the first plane back to Sweden, as she had had just about enough of America.

Then Hollywood called. A very well connected producer, after seeing her interviewed on a number of shows, approached her to screen-test for his latest picture, the third in a wildly successful teen horror series. Greta balked at first, but the possibility of a $300,000 payday enticed her. After demonstrating a modicum of camera presence, she got the part and was off to the races.

Within five hours of getting the role, she had signed with an agent, taken on a manager, and hired an entertainment attorney. Within ten days she was dating the hottest young actor in the biz, had inked a million-dollar contract with Revlon, and had leased a bungalow in the Hollywood Hills that had reputedly been Frank Sinatra's secret love nest with Ava Gardner.

When her new manager diplomatically suggested she change her last name, she snapped,“That's what they told Schwarzenegger.” Greta was home.

“There you go,” said the cheery young woman behind the table, handing former sheriff's deputy Bill Alexander his information packet. “Good luck,” she added.

Bill walked away and poked through the packet. Entering the gymnasium-sized hall, one of four in session that evening at the Bellevue Holiday Inn, Bill found four hundred folding chairs, arranged in orderly rows. They were already three-quarters filled. He wandered down the center aisle and located a seat about ten chairs in.

A massive banner behind the podium proclaimed the purpose for which he and the assembling crowd were present: “Buy Homes! Zero Down!” Another banner was simply a string of dollar signs. When he had seen the newspaper ad, the concept of being his own boss had excited him. The prospect of a whole new career was thrilling. No one in the sheriff's department ever discovered he was the one who leaked that case file to the press. Only after he quit did he find out they had the casting. If he'd known about it, he might have swiped that too, and maybe sent it to the
Seattle Times.

But right now it didn't really matter because he was dreaming of his future freedom, not to mention purchasing power. Why, he might get himself that Chevy Tahoe he'd always wanted. But what appealed most at that moment to the former law enforcement officer was being in the bosom of a large gathering of fellow human beings, all contained in a warm, very well lighted room. A very different place and situation from another night not long ago crossed his mind, and he shivered so vigorously the woman next to him looked over.

He smiled quickly. “Felt a draft.”

J. D. Watts was convicted of murdering Leon Newburg, based upon evidence from the crime scene such as Watts's fingerprints on one end of the baseball bat and Newburg's brain matter on the other, as well as blood and hair from the trunk of the car. But his story, in light of what had happened, turned him into something of a minor celebrity, being one of the few who survived the monster's rage. However, some of J. D.'s prison colleagues didn't appreciate the attentions of the news magazines and true crime shows, and one morning, as he took a shower, they jammed the sharpened handle of a spoon through his heart.

By the time Ty, Ronnie, and the kids returned from the tropics in late January, the crew Ty hired had already cleared away the destroyed sections of the house and had commenced rebuilding. Sorting through their clothing and other items, Ronnie made determinations about what could be saved and what would be tossed owing to fire or smoke damage. She had also restructured her job, after gaining approval from her partners, to reduce her role in the day-to-day operations and to work out of the house via video teleconferencing. Technology allowed her freedom from the office for all but about fifteen hours a week.

Ty temporarily assumed the job as curator of what many were calling the greatest anthropological discovery of the millennium. To field requests from myriad television and radio shows, to respond to movie and book offers, to organize lectures and symposiums, as well as to schedule audiences with various scientists, scholars, and researchers, Ty set up an office in downtown Snohomish and assembled a small staff. Safely reposing in a specially constructed chilled locker at an “undisclosed location” was Ty's organization's sole asset, a ten-foot-eightand-three-
eighths-inch, thirteen-hundred-and-eighty-eight-
pound cadaver—allowing for the sizable hole through its upper body.

Ty set up formal examinations and cataloguing of the creature, which was eventually christened by science, after a great deal of rancor and dissent, as
Homo gigantus benjaminus,
the third name a slight deviation in naming protocol to honor the man Ty successfully lobbied to credit as its discoverer. Of course Ty retained all exhibition and licensing rights. After careful planning as to how to administer the body and the inherent rights—estimated by
Forbes
to be worth in excess of one hundred million dollars—Ty created a trust to aid the families of all the murder victims. That done, every cent of the remaining monies was pledged to funding everything from cryptozoological research to humanitarian aid for undeveloped nations.

When Ty and Ronnie heard of Greta's recent success, they sent her a huge bouquet and wished her well. Before leaving on their healing trip, Ty sought out the nurse whose phone he'd swiped and gave her a check for $10,000 and a prepaid cell phone for the next five years. She was bowled over and said she wished he'd taken her wallet and keys and maybe even her two kids.