This brought on a whole flurry of conversation which I could barely keep up with. Before I knew it, they were back to the merits of scrying and I logged off, shaking my head, wishing I'd taken notes.
Was it clairvoyance that allowed Maggie to "see" the murders, or was she telepathically reading the mind of the killer? And if her dream about Hector's death really had occurred before the murder itself, was that precognition, or was she just picking up on the killer's intentions? I felt like I had just scratched the surface of what portended to be a massive body of knowledge.
Regardless of how and why Maggie was witnessing the murders, assuming both were murders, the fact remained that the two people who died had abused Maggie's clients, which brought me right back to motive. Right or wrong, ever since I'd learned about Harold's previous attacks on guys who supposedly "had it coming," I had begun to think of the deaths as vengeful and the killer as some self-righteous vigilante. Somebody was righting wrongs. Or wanted it to appear so. It was equally possible that one of the murders was a deliberate attempt to divert attention from the other. But I had to start somewhere, and where better than with Harold Bone?
I checked the address that Maggie had given me. Harold lived in Riverland, less than an hour from Cedar Hills and only forty-five minutes from Kings Harbor where he worked construction. It was Monday and I assumed he would normally be working, though with the impending rain, it was doubtful the construction crew would be called out. Which meant I'd have to try him at home. Between now and our first therapy session, I wanted to get a feel for Harold's habits. In fact, I wanted to know exactly how and where he spent his off-hours, and to do that, I needed to crawl underneath his car. Not the easiest thing to do in broad daylight, I thought, but I had a better chance of finding his garage door open during the day than at night. If the garage door was closed, I'd have to hope for clear weather tomorrow and find his vehicle at the construction site. Either way, it was going to be tricky.
A few months back I'd had a case in which a woman who suspected her husband of having an affair insisted I buy a tracking device to keep tabs on her husband's comings and goings. At the time, I thought it an extravagant measure, but it did in the end save me a lot of wasted hours sitting in my Jeep watching his car from across some dimly lit street in the pouring rain. Whenever the man's Buick moved, my device alerted me to the target's direction and distance. If I were within five miles of him when he took off, I could usually locate the Buick by the time he had parked. If I was out of tracking range when he took off, it meant I'd have to crawl underneath his car later and visually check the compass transmitters to figure out where he'd been. This was a pain in the ass, but it prevented me from having to stay within the five-mile range all day. By the end of the second week, I could tell, without even bothering to follow him, which paramour's house he was either approaching or had been to.
When at last I handed over photos to the wife showing not one but several different lovers, I was convinced of the tracking device's merit. Without it, I might have been satisfied after securing proof that he was in fact seeing someone, never to discover the extent of the man's infidelity. Unfortunately, I don't think the woman appreciated it quite as much as I did.
By the time I crossed the lake that morning, the rain had started to plunk down in slow, fat splattering drops. I pulled into my usual marina slip and tied up, ducking beneath the tin overhang. Tommy, the marina attendant, was down on the west dock, tossing a trout lure into the mouth of Rainbow Creek, which runs from the lake to the ocean a mile away. Shirtless under blue-jean overalls, he seemed oblivious to the weather change, but when he saw me, he came loping over, grabbing an umbrella out of his boat on the way.
"Hey, Cass. Better take this. It's starting to come down."
"Thank you, Tommy." I accepted the proffered umbrella and ran up the ramp to my Jeep Cherokee, jumping inside just before the heavens opened up.
It's an easy fifteen-minute drive to Kings Harbor on Highway One, but from there, the road to Riverland is windy and slow. Logging trucks, heedless of the rain-slicked surface, zoomed past me in the fast lane, but I was content to stay to the right, enjoying the sodden scenery. I'd seen enough slaughtered deer on the sides of roads like this to negate any thought I had of speeding.
Riverland is a picturesque town in the country, nestled between the North Fork River and gently rolling hills. I came here frequently, not for the ambience but for the outstanding French restaurant I'd discovered on the outskirts of town. Chez Suzette was so far off the beaten path, few people knew of its existence. But those who did came from miles around and were regular customers. As soon as I was finished with the task at hand, I intended to swing in for a late lunch.
Harold and his new wife lived along the river in an old, rambling farmhouse a few miles east of town. It was a semi-private lane, with just a half-dozen houses scattered along the south side, their rear porches facing the river. On the north side of the road, the ground sloped steeply up, so that the trees clinging to the hill arched over the lane, shading the farmhouses along the riverbank. It wasn't exactly the perfect place to set up surveillance, I thought. Even as I tooled idly down the road, I imagined eyes peering out at me from behind curtained windows. Luckily, every other person in Oregon drives a truck or sport utility vehicle, so I didn't exactly stand out.
Harold's place was near the end of the lane just before a curve, and I was relieved to see the garage door open. A green Ford pickup with mud-crusted tires was parked alongside a Volvo station wagon. A yellow and green tractor was nosed in beside the garage, under a carport out of the rain.
Because being a private investigator necessitates that I spend a great deal of time in my vehicle, I've managed to stock it with everything imaginable. In addition to a cache of food and water, I carry raingear, a flashlight, toilet paper, a wide-mouthed bottle (for those times when I can't get to a bush), a camera, binoculars, my Swiss Army knife, a fingerprint kit and a dozen other devices I've collected over the years. I even have an Insat wireless modem so I can use my laptop for faxing or e-mailing, no matter how far out in the boonies I might be. I've got a cell phone, too, but unfortunately, half the time it doesn't work when I need it. It's not the phone's fault. The problem is that the hills and mountains around that part of Oregon often block out the transmitters. Crossing my fingers, I punched in Harold's number as I rounded the bend and made a U-turn at the end of the road. I held my breath and hit Send, smiling when the phone actually rang.
"Hullo," the bass voice boomed. Bingo! The rain had kept Harold away from his construction job. I hung up and turned off the ignition. Now, all I had to do was figure out a way to get my tracking device underneath his Ford pickup, and I'd be in business.
The rain came down in a steady if unspectacular fashion, streaking the windshield, which didn't really matter because there wasn't anything to see. The curve where I'd parked was big enough to conceal the Jeep. Others had parked here before me, I noticed. It was either a lover's lane hang-out or a great fishing spot, because beer bottles and food wrappers littered the area. Which gave me an idea.
I crawled into the backseat and struggled into a full-length raincoat. I donned a pair of rubber boots and my Mariner's cap, then found the fishing pole I always carry in the back. All true Oregonians carry fishing gear in their vehicles. You never know when you're going to pass an irresistible fishing hole that no one else has yet discovered. A true fisherwoman would have probably had some night crawlers handy too, I suppose, but I wasn't that much of a die-hard anymore. I slipped the tracking device inside the raincoat pocket and stepped out into the downpour.
I made my way to the bank, slipping in the mud occasionally until I reached the river. To my surprise, I'd found what looked like the perfect fishing spot. The river rippled past a bend and tumbled into a deep, dark pool about twenty feet downstream. I wasn't in that big of a hurry, I told myself. I tossed a plastic lure with a barbless hook into the faster water and reeled slowly, letting the current ca
rry the lure into the still, deep waters of the pool. To my utter amazement, the lure was hit. The line tightened and the little rod tip bent over nearly double. Line zinged out with a whine as I tried to tighten the drag. Before I could get my hand back on the reel, the fish jumped, a giant silver and pink flash of color arching gracefully above the water, twisting its sleek, impressive form with ease, spitting the lure back into the water before splashing back down into the depths.
My heart pounding, I stared at the water in awe. Probably the biggest natural rainbow I'd ever seen had just laughed in my face. I laughed aloud myself, glad I hadn't caught it, but grateful I'd been given the chance to witness its magnificence. Then I reeled in, secured the barbless hook to the eye of my rod and trudged along the bank through the rain toward Harold Bone's house.
Just for show, I tossed the line back into the water a few times as I worked my way along the slippery bank. When I got close to his place, I turned away from the river, pretending to fiddle with my lure. Though my head was bowed, I could see his back porch clearly. To my relief, both Harold and his wife were out back, safe from the rain under a huge metal awning, working on what looked like large, plywood Christmas decorations. It was only April, but the whole back porch seemed to have been turned into a Santa's workshop, and dozens of wooden cutouts were stacked on racks, awaiting paint.
I turned back to the river and tried to maintain a leisurely pace as I worked my way down river. I even tossed the line out a few more times, praying that nothing would bite. When I thought I'd gone far enough, I risked another look, then walked straight between their property and the neighbor's yard, back toward the road. No one stopped me. I looked like a tired fisherman, heading home for the day.
By now, my heart was beating rapidly, for I knew the next part was the trickiest. If either of them came out, I planned to use my knife to cut my hand. The sight of blood would help explain my presence in their garage. I could say I was going to ask for help. If Harold came out, it would ruin my cover as a group member later, but my hope was that they were too busy to come out and they wouldn't hear me because of the rain. And it would only take a few minutes.
I walked along the road, fishing pole tucked beneath my arm, fingering the knife in my pocket with one hand, readying the tracking device with the other. I reached their house, bent my head forward and walked purposefully up to the garage. Somewhere inside, a dog barked.
Damn! I rushed forward, slid onto my knees and pulled the transmitter out of my pocket. It was dark underneath the truck and my fingers were damp, making it difficult to get a firm grip. Finally, I heard the magnetic attachment click into place, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The barking grew louder, and I could hear his wife's voice coming closer, telling the dog to be quiet. I carefully slid out from underneath the truck, pulled open the blade on my Swiss Army knife and backed out of the garage. Not until I reached the end of the driveway did I turn around. If she'd come out, I'd have pretended to be walking toward her, not running away.
Once I made it to the road, I quickened my pace. By now, rain had trickled down the back of my neck and my cap was soaked, my hair plastered to my head. But Fido had quit barking and I made it all the way to my Jeep unchallenged. I knew that the tracking device was limited to a five-mile range, preventing me from monitoring his whereabouts from my home in Cedar Hills. Unless I wanted to camp out in Riverland, I'd have to spend a lot of time crawling under Harold's truck just to see how far and in which direction he'd gone. I only hoped it would be worth the effort. I entered my own mileage into a log so that I could precisely gauge the distance from his home to Kings Harbor, then set off for my favorite French restaurant.
It wasn't until I was safely away, halfway to Chez Suzette's and lazily replaying the scene in my mind, that something dawned on me. Mrs. Bone was pregnant. I wasn't sure what difference it made, but there had been no mistaking the subtle swell of her belly beneath her shirt.
The parking lot at Suzette's was empty and for a moment, I feared she was closed, but the orange and black OPEN sign hung in the window and the lights shone invitingly through the lace curtains.
Looking into my rearview mirror, I worked on drying my hair a little and thought about what to order. The house specialty, of course, was crepes. My first few visits, I'd stuck with those, but over the past several years, I'd tried nearly everything on the menu, from appetizers of razor clams, calamari, or escargots to cream of morel soup, beef bourguignon and Suzette's favorite, her father's famed tournedos Richelieu with truffle sauce. She only made that dish once a year, on Bastille Day, and I hadn't missed it in three years. When I walked into the small, unpretentious restaurant, Suzette came scurrying around the counter to wrap me in a fierce hug.
"Where is everyone?" I asked. The place was empty. Not even the ubiquitous coffee drinkers who spent the day gossiping at the counter were in their usual chairs.
"Big Founders' Day parade in town. Been slow all morning. What are you in the mood for? You look like something the cat dragged in."
I ignored the comment on my soggy appearance. "What's that I smell?" I said, sticking my head into the kitchen. Suzette shooed me away with her dishtowel and waved me toward my favorite table.
"That's veal knuckles. I'm making a reduction sauce. You want a glass of wine while you wait? I'll surprise you."
These were words to make my heart sing. Not the wine, though her selection was astonishingly good, but the part about surprising me. There was nothing better than a gourmet chef in a creative mood, I thought, settling into the well-worn booth.
While I sipped the Bordeaux, I listened happily to the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. Suzette sang loudly and out of tune while I tried to put together the conflicting images I had of Harold Bone. He was a big man, but certainly no body-builder. In his flannel shirt and coveralls, he'd looked like a friendly giant, towering over his pregnant wife, a slight, dark-skinned woman. They'd been working on Christmas crafts, of all things! Hardly the image of a vicious killer! But he'd been arrested twice for assault and battery. On the other hand, that had been ten years ago. He was newly married and his wife was expecting. People do change, I thought, finding the contradictions unsettling. To top it off, he was in a therapy group for victims of abuse. I was glad I'd finally get to meet him face-to-face the next day so I could see for myself just what kind of man he really was.
When Suzette finally emerged through the swinging doors, I was ravenous, which was a good thing, given the amount of food on the platter. Suzette set the food in front of me, then went to get herself a wineglass. She sat across from me and splashed wine into both our glasses.
"Bon appetit," she said, smiling her gap-toothed grin.
"Like I've got any other kind," I said, already digging in. I'm not sure what all I ate, but there were black truffles on pork medallions, some kind of Alfredo sauce I could have cried over and something I suspected contained snails sautéed in garlic and butter. Once I got over the texture, and ignored the fact that the rain had brought out a veritable army of the little creatures who were at that very moment climbing over the begonias outside the window by my table, I admitted that the dish was to die for. Suzette does not believe in all the hoopla over fat grams, and it shows on her ample waist. While I ate, she regaled me with tales of her latest husband's gambling problem, and kept my wineglass filled, though I did my best to sip water now and then for good measure. By the time I'd finished, I was practically faint with happiness.
"Come back next weekend," she shouted after me as I made a mad dash through the rain for my Jeep. "I've got a big batch of chanterelles coming in!"
I waved, smiling at the thought of what Suzette would do with the wild mushrooms, and pulled back out onto the road.
Chapter Eight
Perhaps it was the wine and heavy French food that affected my dreams that night. Or maybe all the talk about Maggie's dreams had me paying more attention to my own. Whatever it was, I found myself sleeping fitfully, as if I were being yank
ed awake and dragged back down against my will all night. Finally, about three o'clock, I sank down into a half-sleep and watched myself participate in a dream I couldn't get out of.
The child curled herself into a ball like the kitten had done, back before the kitten had been thrown into the creek, its little head smacking against the boulder that had ended its suffering. The child did not want to suffer anymore. But she did not want to die. Not like the kitten.
She climbed into the trunk, thick with mothballs and must, burrowing down beneath blankets and cedar chips until she could scarcely breathe. Only then did the child allow herself to utter one deep but silent sob. Then she lay stock-still, holding her breath as the Bad One threw open the door.
"I know you're in here!" the voice bellowed. The stench of bourbon could not penetrate the thick planks of the trunk, but the voice was unmistakably drunken.
The child quivered, not daring to breathe.
"Come out now, and it won't be nearly half so bad." The voice was suddenly alluring, sweet, as the heavy body stumbled past the trunk. The child was not fooled. She had heard this voice before, many times, right before the fists flew, the eyes blazed, the real pain began. The child closed her eyes and prayed.
The Bad One clanged open the window, panting heavily. Then, with a curse-ridden shout through the open window, promising dire consequences if the child did not return that instant, the Bad One retreated, huffing obscenities under his breath.
The child stayed another two hours, barely able to breathe, suffocating under the heat of the quilts, but long enough for the Bad One to have sunk into the sofa, snoring himself into oblivion. Only then did the child dare to crawl out, hoping against hope that by morning the Bad One wouldn't remember.
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