by Lisa Jackson
Turnquist nodded. “I’ll vouch for him.”
“He did work for you before?” Carter was eyeing Jenna.
“Yes, when the pump froze.”
“Then have him show you how to program it and you change it every day. The only people who will know what it is are you, the kids, and Turnquist here.” Carter nodded at Jake as he zipped his jacket.
“And Hans and Estella,” she corrected.
“No. You buzz ’em in. Have the electrician, Whitaker, work it so that you have control from the house.”
“That might take a while.” She wondered how the girls would keep up with the ever-changing access code.
“Then find someone else. A company who will install the buzzer today or tomorrow.” He eyed Jenna as he squared his hat upon his head. “You won’t have to do this forever,” he assured her as he headed for the door. “Just until we get the son of a bitch.”
Rinda called less than an hour later. She was a wreck, her voice trembling as she cancelled all activities at the theater—dance classes, voice lessons, even the rehearsals for the coming play. “It’s just too weird, too disrespectful,” Rinda whispered, her throat sounding clogged as if she were fighting tears. “You were right—we should have stayed later last night until Lynnetta’s husband showed up. We should never have left her alone.”
“You don’t know that we could have made a difference. If the creep who took her wanted her, he would have found a way to get to her.”
“God, who is he?” She cleared her throat. “He waited until after we left to pounce, didn’t he? He was watching. He might even have a key.” She was working herself up, her voice rising. “This wasn’t random, Jenna. It was planned. I know it. Oh God, why would anyone want to hurt Lynnetta?”
“I don’t know.” Jenna rested a hip against the counter and stared at the fire. She couldn’t think of a single soul who would want to harm the preacher’s wife.
Rinda sniffed, then asked, “Has Carter been by to see you?”
“Yeah, this morning.”
“He was here, too, asking all sorts of questions. Just left. He or some officer from the State Police is going to talk to everyone in the theater troupe, all of the actors, stagehands, the janitor, you name it. Even Scott, if you can believe that.”
Jenna could, but didn’t say as much. As it was, Rinda sounded slightly miffed, her grief spilling into anger.
“I can’t believe this mess,” Rinda admitted. “I hope—I mean, I pray—that Lynnetta’s okay. Maybe her disappearance is all just a big mistake…” But the desperation and pain in her voice said she believed otherwise. As did Jenna.
“Let’s not give up hope yet.”
“I haven’t. But it’s hard. And you’d better brace yourself. That reporter for KBST, Brenda Ward, she’s already called me. Twice. And someone from the Banner, where Roxie Olmstead worked. They’ve left a couple of messages. I’m tellin’ ya, these people are cannibals. One of their own is missing and they’re trying to make a story out of it.” She blew her nose and added vehemently, “But just try to get them to write a human-interest piece on the renovations to the theater and see what happens. Nothing, that’s what! It’s all murder, scandal, blood, and sex these days!”
“I think the theater’s going to get a lot of press now.”
“Exactly. Bad press. Just what we need…and Lynnetta. I can’t quit thinking about her, about last night…Oh God, Jenna, what’s happening around here?”
Nothing good. “I don’t know.”
“Look, I’ve got to go,” Rinda said. “And warn Scott.”
“Warn him?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t even know about Lynnetta, and they were pretty tight. He drove into Portland last night for a concert that should have been cancelled because of the weather, but wasn’t. Anyway, he has no idea Shane’s on the warpath. Jesus Christ, that makes me mad! To even suggest that Scott might know something. Shane Carter is Scott’s godfather and still he doesn’t trust him.”
“It’s his job. He can’t trust anyone right now,” Jenna said, bristling slightly as she defended the man that, for months, Rinda had lauded and now was cursing.
“Oh, no!” Rinda gasped.
“What?”
“Turn on your television. Check out KBST.”
With the phone to one ear, Jenna picked up the remote with her free hand and clicked to the station Rinda had suggested. There, on the screen, a reporter was planted in the snow in the foreground. Behind her was the theater. Police cars and a few uniformed men were visible, as was the sign announcing tickets on sale for It’s a Wonderful Life.
Rinda groaned.
“You wanted publicity.”
“No one will come to the play now.”
“You don’t know that—the first performance is still a few weeks away,” Jenna said, wondering why she was trying to cheer her friend up. Rinda was right, the situation was dire. Poor Lynnetta.
“This isn’t the right kind of publicity.”
“According to my agent, there is no wrong kind,” Jenna said, hoping to lighten the conversation, but Rinda wasn’t to be consoled.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“A city cop car in my drive. Probably Officer Twinkle.”
“Who?”
“Old joke. Bad one. Never mind.” She sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “I suppose this is going to be unending.”
“Maybe they’ll find Lynnetta.”
“Let’s hope,” Rinda said, and hung up.
Jenna continued to watch the television. She felt empty inside as the reporter, Brenda Ward, a pert little redhead in a blue parka and gloves, squinted against the falling snowflakes and explained about Lynnetta Swaggert being abducted. From Lynnetta’s disappearance, the newscast segued into stories about the other missing women, and Jenna felt as if she had a huge stone in the middle of her stomach. The weather report was next, along with a reminder that the schools were closed. Jenna, thoughts on Lynnetta, barely noticed. Finally she snapped off the TV.
They spent the day inside. Both girls, though they didn’t say it, were bored to tears and neither one was interested in a) baking an early batch of Christmas cookies; b) helping string interior lights and putting up all the decorations except for the tree; or c) playing cards or any kind of board game. They both preferred their own company.
Cassie talked on the phone, instant-messaged on the computer, or watched some soap opera on television. Allie, with Jake at her side, broke a fresh trail through the snow to help Hans with the horses. Two hours later, she returned, her cheeks red, her nose running; Jenna made her hot cocoa and a peanut butter sandwich and urged her to practice the piano. Begrudgingly, she agreed, and now, as Jenna sat at the table going over her checkbook, the clear notes of several Christmas carols wafted into the den.
Jenna was able, through Harrison Brennan, to get through to the electrician, but of course, Seth Whitaker had barely arrived when Harrison, hell-bent on helping out, drove through the open gates. He parked next to Turnquist’s truck. Over Jenna’s protests, Brennan helped his friend, and though Jenna sensed that Whitaker would rather have done the job himself and made tracks to his next project, he didn’t complain, even when Harrison handed out orders.
“If he’s bothering you, I’ll ask him to leave,” Jenna said to Whitaker as she, dressed in ski gear, carried out a thermos of coffee. Brennan was a few feet off, standing near Whitaker’s white truck and out of earshot as he rewound a roll of wire. He wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit made out of some thin, insulated material and a thick jacket and ski mask.
“I’m okay.” Whitaker, bundled in a heavy jacket and pants, a hunter’s cap with flaps covering his ears, was intent on his work at the gate post and barely looked up. His toolbox was at his feet, getting buried by the blowing snow.
“All right, but I know he can be bossy.”
“Comes with being in the military, I guess,” Whitaker said, as he screwed the faceplate on the
keypad at a gate post. “Here. Time for a quick lesson.” He took the thermos from her gloved hands. “Now, depress the key that says PID—that’s Personal Identity. Put in three numbers that mean something to you and hit the PID key again.” She punched in two, two, six. “My birthday,” she explained.
Whitaker snorted. “Well, that’s okay for now, but in the future, use something that’s a little more obscure. Now that you’ve entered your PID, you need to punch in a code of four numbers—these are the ones that will change daily. Go ahead, use any numbers. We’ll change the code again, once you understand how it works.”
Jenna keyed in one, two, three, four.
He grinned, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair enough. Now hit reset.” He pointed to a button with the tip of his Phillips screwdriver. She did as requested. “Okay, now try your new code.” Once again, she keyed in the numbers. After the last digit, the gate swung open. She used the same process to close the gate and return it to its locked position.
Whitaker kicked open his toolbox and dropped his screwdriver onto the tray holding wrenches, pliers, and screwdrivers. Then, as he kicked the lid closed again, he began twisting off the thermos lid. He seemed satisfied with his work, even grinned. “You can do the same thing up at the house. I’ll wire it in.”
“What’s to prevent anyone from taking off the faceplate and resetting it themselves?”
“Nothing. As long as they have your PID. So that’s why I suggested you come up with something more creative than your birthday. Got it?” He poured a stream of coffee into the thermos cap.
“Yeah, I think so. I just hope I can remember the codes if I change them every day.”
“You might want to work out some kind of system that only you and your kids know. Like adding thirty-three to the total numbers. You just punched in one, two, three, four, or one thousand two hundred and thirty-four. Tomorrow you’d add thirty-three and your code would be one thousand two hundred and sixty-seven, or one, two, six, seven. The next day you’d add another thirty-three and the code would be one thousand three hundred, or one, three, zero, zero.”
The numbers spun in Jenna’s head. “I think we’ll come up with something simpler.”
Whitaker shrugged and sipped the coffee. “Whatever’s easiest for you to remember.”
“Got it figured?” Harrison asked as he carried the coil of wire to the gate and joined them.
Turning her back to the wind, Jenna reached into her pocket. “Never.” She pulled out a small cup. “I thought you might need something to warm you up.”
Harrison’s blue eyes met hers and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, barely visible through the ski mask. As if he were touched by her act of kindness. Lately, the words they’d shared had been sharp. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “It is a mite cold out here.”
“Like ten below,” Whitaker agreed. “If you add in the wind chill, it’s even worse.”
Smiling as the snow swirled around them, Whitaker handed Brennan the thermos. “What about you?” he asked Jenna.
“I’ve got a cup inside. I’ll let you two freeze out here and drink mine by the fire,” she teased.
“Nice,” Whitaker mocked.
“Come in when you’re finished and you can warm up.”
“Soon,” Whitaker muttered. “We’re about done out here.”
“Thank God—it’s colder than a well-digger’s butt.” Brennan looked at Jenna, his blue eyes assessing. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve never really minded the cold. Winter’s usually my favorite time of year.”
CHAPTER 35
The sheriff’s department was a madhouse. Even though the FBI and Oregon State Police were involved in the kidnapping and murder cases, the department was stretched thin, plagued with new problems. With damage from the storm, icy roads, shut-ins, power outages, and idiots like the kid who broke his pelvis in eight places while trying to scale Pious Falls, his men and women had more than they could handle. The press had convened in Falls Crossing en masse despite the bad roads.
A search party had been started for Lynnetta Swaggert. The group was largely made up of volunteers—neighbors, friends, and members of the church—who were already tired from tromping through the snow-covered woods and fields looking for Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead. Even the Explorer Scouts, young people who aspired to be cops and were often used in searches, were weary, cranky, and cold to the bone. A usually eager group, they were dispirited with the prospect of yet another search.
Carter sat at his desk behind an ever-growing pile of paperwork, a couple of empty coffee cups, and a stack of phone messages he hadn’t returned yet. Most of the paperwork would have to wait. The missing women were the highest priority, and Lynnetta’s husband was making the most of the grim situation.
The Reverend Derwin Swaggert had been on the television, dry-eyed but shaken, spouting about God’s will and asking for prayers for his wife. A candlelight vigil was planned for this evening, and The reverend was encouraging everyone to pray not only for Lynnetta but for the other missing women as well.
Morale was low.
Deputies and office workers alike needed a break.
Even BJ wasn’t herself.
She stopped by his office and shut the door. “You know, I have a problem with Ian Swaggert, a big problem. He’s still hanging around Megan, and the kid is trouble, but this…” She lifted a hand and let it fall to her side. “This is real bad.”
“We could still find her.”
“Alive!” BJ snapped. “We need to find her alive.”
Jerri tapped on the door and dropped two sheets of paper on his desk. “Fax for you,” she said. “From Jenna Hughes.”
BJ said, “What kind of fax?” as Jerri left and closed the door behind her again.
“A list of makeup studios who specialize in monster-making.” He quickly scanned the list. “Companies that might use alginate for molds.”
“What are you talking about?” She was interested, leaning a hip against his desk, reading the list upside down as he explained what he’d found out and how he thought the alginate might be the link between Mavis Gette’s murder and Jenna Hughes’s stalker.
“You’re serious about this?”
“Absolutely.”
BJ studied the list and scratched her arm. “I don’t know, it’s pretty far-fetched,” she said. “Did you tell the feds or OSP?”
“I called Larry Sparks. He said he’d check it out. Run it by the FBI. They’ve got a profiler working on the serial kidnapping case now, but they’re still not convinced the cases are linked, so maybe this’ll help.”
“Or maybe they’ll laugh you out of the office.”
He snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Running a finger down the typed names of the companies, he said, “Now, what we need is a roster of their employees and anyone with roots up here, maybe someone who was working for them in California and moved north.” His eyes narrowed and he tented his fingers under his chin as he leaned back in his chair, making the old metal groan. “And we need to find out if any of them are or have been missing alginate. Did you have any luck finding out if any suppliers shipped to anyone around here?”
“Other than the dentists?” She shook her head. “No.”
“What about Portland? Or Vancouver? Even Seattle. Somewhere within driving distance.”
“Still working on it.”
“Good.”
Another tap on the door and Jerri stuck her head in. “KBST is camping out in front,” she said, “and one of the reporters, a”—she glanced at her note—“Brenda Ward, wants to interview you.”
“Not now.”
“She asked for a statement.”
Carter leaned forward. “Tell her to call Lieutenant Sparks of the Oregon State Police.”
Jerri ducked out of the office and BJ picked up the list. “Mind if I make a copy?” she asked.
“Go for it. Once you get a printout of any employees who have m
oved recently, or quit, or taken a leave of absence, we’ll cross-reference it with our list of people who have rented or bought the movies, not just around here, but in the greater metropolitan area of Portland, maybe all of northern Oregon and southern Washington. If that doesn’t work, we’ll expand the search.” He crushed an empty cup and tossed the crumpled remains into his trash. “But I have a feeling this guy’s close.” His eyes narrowed as he thought. “And efficient. Maybe knows his victims. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle in the church, nor at the scene of the Olmstead accident, nor at the parking lot of Lou’s Diner. Either this guy somehow disables his victim without a struggle or blood loss or he cons them into helping him out. Remember Ted Bundy? Sometimes he wore a cast, I think, or bandages to disarm his victims, make them less wary.”
“Roxie Olmstead wrecked her car. No conning there.”
“He could be smart enough to adjust to each situation. If one way doesn’t work, he uses another.”
“Let’s hope he’s not smart,” BJ said, “but just lucky and that his luck is about to run out.” She grabbed the two sheets of Jenna Hughes’s fax and started to walk out of the room. “Oh, wait,” she said. “I thought you might want to know that there are a couple of lines from the poems that I came across on the Internet. Today. Tomorrow. Endlessly. It’s from a poem written by Leo Ruskin—have you heard of him?”
Carter shook his head.
“Similar to a New-Age Timothy Leary. Writes poetry that means nothing to me, but get this—the line was going to be used as a promo line for White Out, the Jenna Hughes movie that never was finished.”
Carter’s head snapped up. He drilled BJ with his eyes. “Wouldn’t she remember that?” he asked. “Her husband was the producer of that movie and it lost millions.”
“You’d think, but maybe she wasn’t in on that end of things, and then her sister was killed and her marriage fell apart. She could’ve blanked the whole business out, if she ever knew it at all.”
Carter felt a rush in his blood, a surge of adrenaline, the same excitement that he always felt when he was about to solve a case. This could be it. “Where is Ruskin now?”