Chill Factor

by Sandra Brown

  CHAPTER

  13

  EVER READ THE BOOK OF JEREMIAH, HOOT?”

  “Jeremiah? No, sir. Not straight through. Selected verses only.”

  SAC Begley closed his Bible. He’d been reading it for the last ten miles, which had taken Special Agent Wise almost two hours to navigate. “The Lord had a good man in Jeremiah.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Commissioned by Jehovah God to tell people things they didn’t want to hear and would just as soon not have known.”

  Hoot’s knowledge of Old Testament prophets was hazy, so he agreed with Begley’s assessment with a noncommittal grunt.

  “He’s killing them, you know.”

  Trying desperately to keep the car on the road and stay on track with Begley at the same time, Hoot wondered if the antecedent to the pronoun “he” was the prophet, the Lord, or the unknown subject who was preying on the community of Cleary. He figured the unsub.

  “You’re probably right, sir. Although, if he’s confining his activity to this area—and so far we haven’t linked this case to any in other parts of the country—one would think some remains would have been discovered by now.”

  “Hell, but look at this ‘area.’ ” Begley rubbed his sleeve against the frosted passenger window to improve his view of the frozen landscape. “There are hundreds of square miles of solid forest out there. It’s rough, mountainous terrain. Rocky riverbeds. Caves. He’s even got wildlife on his side. For all we know he’s feeding those girls to bears.”

  That triggered Hoot’s acid reflux. The last cup of coffee he’d drunk tasted sour in the back of his throat. “Let’s hope not, sir.”

  “It’s a sparsely populated region. The son of a bitch that bombed Atlanta’s Olympic Park hid out here for years before they found him. No, Hoot, if I was killing young women, I’d choose country like this for my hunting grounds.” Pointing up ahead, he asked, “That it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoot had never been so happy to see a destination in his life. He’d been driving all night over roads that were more suited for a luge. At one interchange not too far out of Charlotte, a highway patrol car was blocking an entrance ramp. The officer got out and motioned for Hoot to back up. On Begley’s orders, Hoot stayed put.

  The patrolman approached them, shouting angrily, “Don’t you see me motioning you? You can’t come this way. The highway’s closed.”

  Hoot lowered his window. Begley leaned across him and flashed the patrolman his ID, explained that they were in hot pursuit of a felon, argued with the officer, pulled rank, and ultimately threatened to push his goddamn patrol car out of the fucking way if he didn’t fucking move it immediately. The officer moved his car.

  Hoot had managed to get them over the ramp without spinning out, but the muscles in his neck and back had been tied in knots ever since. Begley seemed impervious to their peril. Either that or he trusted Hoot’s driving skills more than Hoot did.

  Begley had allowed only two stops for snacks and coffee, which they took with them. At their last stop, Hoot had barely had time to zip up after using the urinal before Begley was knocking on the door and telling him to hurry it along.

  Dawn had reduced the darkness only marginally. Cloud cover was thick and low. Fog and blowing snow limited visibility to a few feet. Hoot’s eyes were tired from straining to see beyond the hood ornament. His speed had maxed out at fifteen miles an hour. Driving any faster would have been suicidal. The freezing rain and sleet that had fallen yesterday were now being exacerbated by a heavy snowfall, the likes of which Hoot had seen only rarely in his thirty-seven years.

  Before they interviewed Ben Tierney, he would have liked a shower, a shave, a pot of black coffee, and a hot, hearty breakfast. But as they approached the burg of Cleary, Begley instructed him to drive directly to the lodge on the outskirts of town.

  The Whistler Falls Lodge was a collection of cabins on a small lake formed by the waterfall just above it. Deep snowdrifts had accumulated along the fence that encircled a playground. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the office. Except for that sign of human occupation, the place seemed a deserted snowscape.

  Hoot carefully steered the sedan off the highway, onto what he hoped was the driveway. It was indistinguishable under the deep snow.

  “Which one’s his?” Begley asked.

  “Number eight.” Hoot inclined his head in that direction. “The one nearest the lake.”

  “And he’s still registered?”

  “He was as of yesterday evening. But his Cherokee isn’t here,” Hoot observed with disappointment. Only one cabin had a vehicle parked in front of it, and it was partially buried in snow. There were no tire tracks. “Should we check in with the manager?”

  “What for?” Begley asked. Hoot looked over at him. “I can see from here that the door to cabin number eight is standing ajar, Special Agent Wise. I bet if we knock on it, it’ll open right up,” he said with a disingenuous smile.

  “But, sir, if this is our guy, we don’t want him to get off because his civil rights were violated.”

  “If this is our guy, I’ll violate his head with a bullet before I let him get off on some procedural bullshit.”

  Hoot parked in front of cabin number eight. When he got out of the car, it felt good to stand up and stretch, even though he sank to his ankles in snow. The wind sucked the breath out of his lungs, and his eyeballs seemed to freeze instantly, but getting to arch his back was worth these discomforts.

  Begley seemed not to notice either the blinding snow or the bitterly cold wind. He plowed his way up the steps to the wraparound porch of the cabin. He tried the door, and when he found it locked, he nonchalantly slid a credit card into it. Seconds later, he and Hoot were inside.

  It was warmer than outdoors but still cold enough for their breath to vaporize. The ashes in the fireplace were gray and cold. The kitchenette adjoining the main room was clean. No food had been left out. Dishes had been washed and left in the drainer. They’d been there long enough to dry.

  Begley put his hands on his hips and pivoted slowly, taking in the details of the main room. “Doesn’t look like he’s been here for a while. He didn’t drive a Cherokee out of here this morning or we’d have seen some tracks even with the way that snow’s coming down. Do you have any thoughts on where Mr. Tierney spent the night, Hoot?”

  “None, sir.”

  “No girlfriend around here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Relatives?”

  “No. I’m sure of that. He was an only child. Parents are deceased.”

  “Then where the hell did he pass the night?”

  Hoot had no answer to that.

  He followed Begley into the front bedroom. After taking a cursory look around, Begley pointed toward the double bed. “Mrs. Begley would consider that a sloppily made bed. She’d say that’s the way a man makes up a bed if he makes it up at all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoot was a man, but he never left a bed unmade, and he always checked to see that the bottom edges of the bedspread were even. Nor did he leave dishes in the drainer; he dried them himself and put them away in their proper places. He also alphabetized his CDs, according to recording artist, not title, and had his sock drawer arranged by color, from the lightest to the darkest, moving left to right.

  But he would cut out his tongue before contradicting Mrs. Begley.

  Unlike the cabin’s main room, the bedroom where Tierney slept looked lived in. A pair of muddy cowboy boots had been kicked into the corner. There was an open duffel bag in the center of the floor with articles of clothing spilling out. Magazines were scattered across the desk beneath the window. Hoot fought his compulsion to straighten them as he ran a quick survey of the glossy covers.

  “Pornography?” Begley asked.

  “Adventure, sports, outdoors, fitness. The kind he writes articles for.”

  “Well, shit,” Begley said, sounding disappointed. “That room out there woul
d indicate that Tierney is a neat freak.”

  “Which fits the profile of the unsub we’re looking for,” said Hoot, realizing as he did that he was indicting his own obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

  “Right. But this. Goddammit,” Begley said. “This looks like my oldest boy’s bedroom. So which is Tierney? A fucking psycho, or just exactly what he looks like? A normal guy who likes the outdoors and doesn’t use fiddle books to get his rocks off?”

  The question was rhetorical. Which was good, since hearing pornography referred to as “fiddle books” had left Hoot speechless.

  The closet door was standing open. Begley peered inside. “Casual, but it’s quality stuff,” he remarked after checking several labels.

  “His credit card statements will attest to that,” Hoot said. “He doesn’t shop at discount stores.”

  Begley turned on his heel and quickly left the room. He stamped across the living area and opened the door to the second bedroom. He’d taken no more than two steps into the room when he was brought up short. “Here we go. Hoot!”

  Hoot rushed to join him just inside the doorway. “Oh, man,” he said under his breath.

  Pictures of the five missing women had been taped to the wall above a table, which Hoot realized was the dining table that should have been in the kitchenette. He hadn’t missed it there until he saw it here.

  On the table was a personal computer and an evidence treasure trove of printed material. Newspaper accounts of the missing women had been clipped from the Cleary Call, as well as from newspapers as far away as Raleigh and Nashville. Passages had been marked with colored felt-tip pens.

  Yellow legal tablets contained pages of scribbled notes, some scratched through, some underlined or otherwise noted as worth reviewing or remembering. There were five file folders, one for each of the young women. They contained sheets of handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, photos that had been published on missing persons posters or in the media.

  And every time there was a mention of the unidentified culprit, it had been highlighted with a blue marker.

  Begley pointed down to such a passage. “Blue.”

  “I noticed that, sir.”

  “His signature color.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Ever since he took Torrie Lambert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The computer—”

  “Will no doubt have a user password.”

  “Think you can crack that, Hoot?”

  “I’ll certainly try, sir.”

  “Awright, hold it right there, ’less you want yore heads blowed clean off.” The voice had the resonance of a cement mixer. “Raise yore hands and turn round real slow-like.”

  Begley and Hoot did as asked and found themselves looking down the twin bores of a double-barreled shotgun.

  Hoot said, “Hello, Mr. Elmer. Remember me? Charlie Wise?”

  He was standing in the center of the room, shotgun raised to chest level. When Hoot called him by name, he squinted for better focus. His face was as red and wrinkled as a persimmon that had been in the sun too long. He was wearing a ratty, moth-eaten watch cap, from which trailed strands of stringy hair that were the same dingy white as his bushy beard. Tobacco juice stains rimmed his lips, which broke into a smile that revealed toothless gums, save for three brown stumps.

  “Lord a’mighty. I could’ve kilt you.” He lowered the shotgun. “Did you come to give Mr. Tierney his award?”

  Hoot had to think a moment before remembering the cover story he’d fabricated to explain his interest in Ben Tierney. “Uh, no. This is Special Agent in Charge Begley. We’re—”

  “Gus? You in there?”

  “Aw, hell,” Gus Elmer said. “I done called the po-lice. Thought somebody was in here stealing Mr. Tierney’s stuff while he weren’t here.”

  Under his breath, Begley muttered a stream of profanity.

  The old man turned to wave in the police officer who poked his head inside the main door. Pistol in hand, he gave the FBI agents a curious once-over. “These the burglars?”

  “We’re not burglars.” Hoot could tell by Begley’s voice that he’d had enough of this nonsense and was about to regain control of a situation that had rapidly unraveled. He pushed Hoot forward and soundly closed the door to the bedroom behind them to prevent the other two from seeing what they’d discovered.

  “We’re FBI agents,” Begley continued, “and I’d like for you to reholster your weapon before you shoot somebody, namely me.”

  The policeman was young, under thirty by several years unless Hoot missed his guess. SAC Begley’s nutcracker and authoritative tone flustered him. Only after his pistol was put away did he remember to ask to see their identification. They complied.

  Satisfied that they were who they purported to be, he smartly introduced himself. “Harris. Cleary PD.” He touched the brim of his uniform hat, which was dusted with melting snow. His uniform pants were stuffed into tall rubber boots. His shearling-lined leather bomber jacket looked a size or two too small, preventing his arms from hanging naturally at his sides. They stuck out several degrees from his body.

  Gus Elmer scratched his beard as he gawked at Hoot. “You’re an FBI agent? No foolin’?”

  “No foolin’,” Begley replied, answering for him.

  “So what’re y’all doin’ here? Wha’d’ya want with Mr. Tierney?”

  “To talk.”

  “ ’Bout what? Is he wanted for somethin’? What’s he did?”

  “I’d like to know that myself,” said Harris. “Are you serving an arrest warrant?”

  “Nothing like that. We just have a few questions for him.”

  “Huh. Questions.” Harris chewed on that for a moment, giving each of them a dubious appraisal. “Have you got a warrant to search these rooms?”

  So, Hoot thought, Harris wasn’t as inexperienced as he’d appeared.

  Ignoring the question, Begley asked, “Your chief’s name is Burton, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Dutch Burton.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Right now?”

  It was such a stupid question, Begley didn’t deign to answer it. He didn’t recognize a timetable other than right now.

  When Harris realized his gaffe, he stammered, “Well, uh, I just heard dispatch say the chief was going to round up Cal Hawkins—he has the town’s only sanding truck—then take him over to the drugstore for some coffee.”

  “Hoot, do you know where the drugstore is?” Begley asked. Hoot nodded. Begley turned back to Harris. “Tell Chief Burton that we’d like to join him there in half an hour. Got it?”

  “I’ll tell him, but he’s anxious to—”

  “Nothing is as important as this. You tell him I said that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harris replied. “About that warrant?”

  “Later.” Begley rapidly crooked his finger at the young officer, who clumped over to him. Unlike his jacket, his boots seemed a size too large. Begley drew close to him and spoke in an urgent undertone. “If you communicate my message to Chief Burton over your police radio, tell him only that it’s imperative we meet this morning. Don’t mention any names. Do you understand? This is a top-priority, extremely delicate matter. Discretion is vital. Can I count on your confidentiality?”

  “Absolutely, sir. I understand.” He touched the brim of his hat again and rushed out.

  When Hoot had been reassigned to the bureau office in Charlotte, he’d welcomed the opportunity to serve under its famed director. Up till now, he’d worked with Begley from the sidelines. This was Hoot’s first chance to watch him in action and observe the skills for which he’d become a living legend with other agents and criminals alike. Colleagues learned from him. Lawbreakers learned from him too, but to their detriment.

  Although he never discussed his days of service in the Middle East, the story was that Begley had talked himself and three other men out of being executed for conducting intelligence operations against Saddam H
ussein’s regime. Although that was exactly what they were doing, Begley convinced their captors that they had the wrong guys, that it was a case of mistaken identity, and that there would be hell to pay if they were harmed, mistreated in any way, or murdered.

  Five days after their capture, the quartet of dusty, thirsty men walked into the lobby of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Baghdad to the amazement of colleagues, diplomats, and media personnel, who’d given them up for dead.

  The story had been elaborated with each retelling, but Hoot didn’t doubt the essence of it. Begley was as straight as an arrow, but he had the soul and mind of a con man. His reputation for manipulation was well deserved.

  He had revealed nothing of consequence to young Harris but had appealed to his ego by including him in their “top-priority, extremely delicate matter” and thereby made him forget that they didn’t have a search warrant and that, basically, they’d been caught red-handed breaking and entering.

  Begley also had emphasized that Harris contact his chief without further delay, which effectively got rid of him, freeing them to question Gus Elmer without an audience.

  “I’d love some coffee, wouldn’t you, Hoot?” he said suddenly. “Mr. Elmer, may we impose upon your hospitality?”

  The old man squinted at Begley with misapprehension. “Huh?”

  “Have you got any coffee?” Hoot said, interpreting.

  “Oh, sure, sure. In the office. And a good fire going, too. Watch yore step. These steps is as slick as snot on a doorknob.”

  A few minutes later they were seated in ladder-back rocking chairs in front of a crackling fire. Snow was melting inside Hoot’s shoes, making his feet cold, wet, and uncomfortable. He placed them as near the fire as possible.

  The coffee mugs Gus Elmer gave them were as chipped and stained as his three teeth, but the brew was scalding, strong, and delicious. Or maybe it just tasted good because Hoot had been craving it so badly.

  For all his willingness to assist in an FBI investigation, Gus Elmer didn’t provide them with much more information than Hoot had already obtained from him. Ben Tierney was a quiet, personable guest whose credit card charges always cleared. About the only thing odd about him was that he refused to let the lodge’s housekeeper clean the cabin while he was occupying it. That peculiarity had been explained by what they’d discovered in the second bedroom.