Oh, stampede.
They were running for their vehicles. He saw the small fleet of news helicopters stirring up dust down the road, rotors whirring, lifting. FBI agents swarmed out of the restaurant, all heading for their vehicles. The sick sound of one fender hitting another could be heard as cars and vans crowded the narrow road leading back to the highway.
Charles now had his choice of prime parking spaces and selected one by the front door. A pleasant surprise awaited him inside—no long line to order food. While he filled a tray for two, Riker had procured a table by the window, and the parents were still filing in the front door—only the parents. Outside in the nearly empty lot, Dr. Magritte was flanked by the FBI moles, the only agents left behind.
Odd.
Well, what could happen here? It was broad daylight. The caravan was perfectly safe. Yet a sense of abandonment pervaded the dining room. All eyes were on the parking lot, though the exodus of FBI and media was over.
Riker held a cell phone to one ear as his fingers drummed the tabletop, the sure sign of a man left on hold. “Still here,” he said to the phone, “you bastard.”
Ah, the man must be speaking with Kronewald.
Riker jotted down a few lines on a napkin and ended the call.
Charles was looking out the window when he asked, “Where do you suppose they went—the agents and reporters?”
“They’re heading down the road about ten miles.” The detective dropped the cell phone into his shirt pocket.
Charles set down the tray of fast food, and then turned back to the window. “But I couldn’t help noticing that they went off in different directions.”
“Yeah.” Riker waved one hand toward the east. “According to Kronewald, in that direction, you’ve got local cops digging up a dirt parking lot. To the west—a grave across the street from a nursing home. Most of the feds will be back soon. The media won’t. Digging up little bones makes a better lead on the evening news. Two gravesites, no waiting. So much more entertaining than parents holding up their posters and begging for help.”
“This is Mallory’s work?”
“No, this time it’s Chicago PD. They got a new toy, geographic profiling. They’re giving grave locations to local police. Now the feds are playing catch-up with the cops. Police in eight states report directly to Kronewald. That old bastard’s just rolling in glory. So he finally won the war—he’s running the show. Oh, and he tells me the sun rises and sets on Kathy Mallory. That kid really knows how to stock up the Favor Bank.”
Both men were looking at the nearly empty parking lot when one of the FBI vehicles returned. Cadwaller stepped out of the car and pulled his suit jacket from a hanger in the rear seat. He approached the window near Charles and Riker’s table and used the glass reflection to smooth down his red hair, not caring that this toilette was being performed only inches from their faces.
“A coat hanger,” said Riker, whose own suit jacket was wadded up in his duffel bag. “Not a hook but a hanger.” For some reason, this made the detective suspicious. “And check out his car. See the little beads of water on the trunk? Crimes scenes east and west of here, and this guy stops off to get his car washed.”
Charles nodded. Perhaps that was excessively tidy. Even Mallory had allowed her car to accumulate streaks and dirt, not to mention the bugs on her windshield.
Cadwaller turned around to look over the surrounding ten cars, all that remained in a lot that boasted a hundred parking spaces. The agent watched Mallory’s car roll into a parking space, and then, with a moue of distaste for her dirty windshield, he turned back to his own vehicle to get a briefcase from the front seat.
“Ah,” said Riker, with great satisfaction. His eyes were fixed on the silver convertible. “The champ of neat freaks has arrived.”
Mallory slowly stepped out of the car, her attention already riveted on the FBI agent.
“And now,” said Riker, with the flair of a sports announcer, “she’s spotted the contender. It’s a match made in hell. She just noticed that his car’s cleaner than hers.”
Cadwaller straightened his perfectly straight tie and headed for the restaurant door, unaware that Mallory was right behind him, her eyes narrowed and fixed on the back of his neck.
Riker smiled at Charles. “She’s very competitive.”
The FBI man had spotted them and walked up to the table, saying, “I’m looking for Darwinia Sohlo.”
“You don’t need to talk to her,” said Mallory at his back.
The agent jumped and spun around. Riker grinned.
“I’ve got orders to interview this woman,” said Cadwaller.
“Because she’s traveling under an alias?” Mallory folded her arms. “She’s got nothing to do with this case. If you’d bothered with a background check you’d know that.”
Charles scanned the crowd of parents and found Darwinia Sohlo in her customary corner chair. Her eyes were a bit fearful, but she always looked that way. Two parents with trays sat down at her table, and the woman’s shoulders rounded as she tried to make herself smaller.
Cadwaller ignored Mallory and turned to Riker, saying, “I’m not planning to shoot Mrs. Sohlo. I just want to talk to her. My orders—”
“Orders from Dale?” Riker shook his head. “You’ve been had, pal. It’s busywork.”
In Charles’s estimation, this was no surprise to Cadwaller. The agent scanned the crowd and walked off in Dr. Magritte’s direction. After a few words were exchanged, the older man pointed him toward the corner table. Now Cadwaller squared off his shoulders and advanced on Darwinia Sohlo with slow, measured steps, clearly regarding her as a criminal.
Mallory turned to her partner. “He’s playing a role.”
Riker nodded. “Christ, you’d think Darwinia was packing a machinegun.”
Cadwaller’s words carried a tone of authority, not shouted, but strong. It was the voice of an enforcer. “Miriam Rainard? Come with me.” He gestured toward the door.
Charles turned to Riker, who answered his unspoken question. “That’s her right name, but I like the fake name better.”
The woman, known to all as Darwinia, slowly moved her head from side to side, a gesture of awe and certainly not one of defiance. The man never touched her. No need. Charles could virtually see the strings that had been attached to this woman’s psyche long ago. She must have been some other enforcer’s property for years and years. She was rising from the table, not even pausing to consider his order. It was an automatic response. Oh, but now the strings had gone slack. Her head moved in another slow side-to-side as she backed up to the wall, and this time she meant no; she was not going anywhere with him.
Charles turned to Mallory. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Darwinia’s cut-rate plastic surgery—that’s a repair job.”
Of course. The history of a battered woman fitted so well with the camera shyness—a runaway woman hiding from an abusive spouse. “So, all this time,” said Charles, “she’s been living with the constant fear of discovery?”
“And now,” said Riker, “Darwinia can’t decide what she wants most—to stay alive or find her kid.”
“If she’s not a suspect, then maybe you two could persuade Cadwaller to leave her alone?”
Well, that was a waste of breath.
Mallory pulled out a chair at the table and sat down with Riker to watch the ongoing show. Charles turned in time to see Darwinia’s resolve fade and die. The woman was turning toward the door, walking in tandem with the FBI man. Oh, but now she saw Mallory, the boxer’s champion, and Darwinia’s eyes were begging. It was Riker who rose to the lady’s defense. He moved in front of the pair before they could reach the door. Apparently, this detective’s intervention was not in Cadwaller’s script for the day. The agent stopped short, all authority dissipating—so like an actor with no clue to his next line.
“Cadwaller, she can’t help you.” Riker waved him toward the window table. “But we can, m
e and my partner. Sit down, and we’ll fill you in.” Turning to Darwinia, he said, “Everything’s fine. Go finish your meal.”
The FBI man joined Charles and the detectives at their table. He sat down and opened a notebook, unaware that he was now the subject of an interrogation. Charles could see it coming as the two detectives smiled in unison and leaned toward the agent.
Lunchtime.
“I get the feeling,” said Riker, “that you don’t know your boss all that well. How long have you been posted with Dale’s field-office?”
“Three months.”
Mallory leaned in. “But you don’t spend much time with him. He keeps you on the road a lot, doesn’t he? Away from the younger agents? They’re all out at the crime scenes, and here you are—running a fake errand.”
Understanding dawned on Cadwaller. His pale skin showed a slight flush of humiliation as he pulled out a pen and looked down at his blank notebook page. “So what’ve you got for me?”
“Twelve years ago, her kid disappeared,” said Riker. “The Wisconsin cops were looking at the father as the prime suspect, and they didn’t expect any help from the battered wife. There was a history of domestic disputes. Her jaw was broken twice, but the lady never pressed charges. Two years after her kid goes missing, Darwinia—Miriam, whatever—she disappears, too. And the cops knew they weren’t looking for a dead body—not that time. They just wished her luck. But Nahlman could’ve told you that. It was her catch, and she gave the whole story to Dale.” The detective leaned in closer, as if to impart a secret. “Now, we know you’re from the Freak Squad—”
“Behavioral Science Unit,” said Mallory, correcting her partner’s bad manners and startling Charles. “This isn’t Cadwaller’s fault.” She turned to the agent, giving him her best rendition of sympathy. “The minute you saw that woman, you knew Dale was screwing up again, didn’t you? Wasting your time again.” And now she had saved a federal agent from looking like a fool.
Not her style.
The FBI man closed his notebook and slapped it on the table. Face saved, the agent raised his grateful eyes to Mallory’s. And now it was her turn to lean toward him into that close range of conspiracy, so confidential in her tone. “What if this isn’t a screwup?”
“What?” Riker’s face was angry when he left his chair and took the one next to his partner. “You’re defending that idiot, Dale?”
Charles was confused by this new game of musical chairs and changing alliances.
Mallory’s eyes remained fixed on Cadwaller. “What if Dale’s playing you?”
The agent turned his face away from hers as he pocketed his notebook and pretended interest in invisible lint on his sleeve. “I guess we’re done, here.” Cadwaller rose from the table with no word of good-bye and left the restaurant.
Charles turned from one detective to the other. “What did I miss?”
“Not much.” Riker changed chairs again to sit before his tray of food. He pushed the laptop computer to Mallory’s side of the table, but she would not even look at it. He frowned, seeing this as an ongoing problem, like a failure to eat her vitamins. “I knew Cadwaller wasn’t Dale’s favorite agent. But if that guy’s got something on Dale, he’s not planning to share it.”
Charles edged closer to Mallory. “So you don’t think Agent Berman is just too incompetent to run a task force?”
“No,” she said. “Berman’s mistakes are really over the top.”
“Yeah,” said Riker, “very stupid mistakes.”
“You’re sure about that?” Mallory slung her knapsack over one shoulder. “Think about it, Riker. Dale was smart enough to fool Markowitz once.” She picked up her car keys, almost ready to leave. “The way I remember it, he fooled you, too.” She leaned close to her partner’s ear to deliver a parting salvo. “And he’s still doing it.”
Agent Nahlman had no idea where Barry Allen had gone. She guessed that he had been reassigned to the gravesite west of this one. Dale Berman effected these separations from her partner all too frequently. Today, he had loaned her out to the state police, demoting her to media control. News vehicles had been turned away from the crime scene and into an area where cameras and lights could be set up. Now came the procession of divas, male and female reporters, to take their positions and deliver live feed on a small grave that they would never be allowed to see. Next, she would be called upon to say “No comment” a hundred times, rephrasing it for the more witless interviewers. Wrangling these bottom feeders and their makeup artists—this was the only thing that Dale was truly good at, but he could not be bothered. No, this was a handmaid’s job.
Nahlman grabbed a passing rookie agent by his sleeve, promoted him to press liaison, and then walked back to the dig site surrounded by state troopers.
Oh, no.
This corpse had flesh. She had become so accustomed to bones, but this child had been mummified in arid ground. It was easy to make out a button nose, a delicate chin—a slashed throat.
Agent Nahlman looked down the road, as if she could see all the way to the restaurant where the caravan parents would be waiting for the news—the name of a little girl. Some had children to fit the victim profile. Many other parents were spread out all over the country, and they were no doubt following the broadcasts, never straying far from their television sets, as this body was unearthed, layer by layer of dirt.
Who would win the phone call today?
Unlike Dale Berman, the local authorities were not inclined to keep the parents in ignorance, and this child would have a decent burial. One of the diggers held up an object cupped in one hand. He was a burly local man and probably had children of his own, for his voice was hoarse when he said, “It’s a locket. Her name was Karen.”
This would not fit any child belonging to a caravan parent. Nahlman knew all their stories now—which missing girl hated asparagus and which one loved baseball more than God. The FBI agent stared at the corpse in the hole.
And whose little girl are you?
A laminated school-bus pass was gently plied from the child’s curled fingers. The bus pass held all the information needed to carry her home.
The caravan had been under way for twenty minutes, and Dr. Paul Magritte was at last feeling at ease. He was more centered now, with many cars between himself and the New York detective in the Mercedes. And the FBI moles were driving at the rear.
The doctor had total privacy.
Eyes on the road, he dipped one hand into his nylon knapsack, fishing blind until his fingers closed upon the photograph of dying April Waylon. He crushed it in his fist. Next, he knocked his pipe from the ashtray, replacing it with the wadded picture. He patted his shirt pockets. Oh, where were his matches? No matter. The car’s cigarette lighter would do as well. A few moments later, he held its glowing tip to the crumpled image of April.
It caught fire, followed by smoke—so much of it. He had never burned one in the car before, and he had not counted on this. His other small fires had been more ceremonial, and those had been set with the flames of votive candles. He batted the air in front of his face. Smoke was slipping past him to his partially opened window. Eyes filled with stinging tears, he dared to open all the windows until, at last, the smoke had cleared and the picture was burnt to ashes.
His eyes were also clearing, and now, in peripheral vision, he noticed another car in the passing lane had come abreast of him and kept pace with him. Through his side window, Paul Magritte glanced at this other driver.
And Mallory looked back at him.
Her head was sharply turned to one side. She was facing him with no thought of the road ahead, and the young detective held this pose for so long—it unnerved him so badly—his hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. She stared at him for miles and miles.
14
The campsite was near an abandoned gas station, and one toilet had been promised to be in working condition. However, the owner had not inspected his property in years, and now he renegotiated the amo
unt of money agreed upon one month ago when the trip was first planned. Today’s price, the owner said, was “Not one red cent, and God bless you all.”
This time, the news media had the affair catered with microwave ovens emitting the smell of reheated pizza to lure the campers and federal agents into the interview zone. But best of all, the most enterprising network crew was unloading Port-O-Potties from a flatbed truck—even better bait that neatly solved the problem of the dysfunctional toilet. As each plastic closet was set upon the ground, a waiting line of parents quickly formed in front of it.
A field reporter stood before a stationary camera, preparing to say his new opening line one more time. Yesterday, he had reported from the Road of Lost Children, but today he said, “This is John Peechem reporting from the Road of Graves.” A cameraman pointed out that he was smiling when he said it that time, too. They did a retake with a more somber expression. And then the lens panned a group of young men and women with the letters FBI emblazoned on their jackets. “This hasn’t been confirmed yet,” the reporter said to his microphone, “but the agents might be looking for body parts.”
A less expensive handheld camera pointed at the caravan’s only children. Brother and sister stood hand in hand, awaiting their turn at one of the big green closets. Standing behind them, their father carried a roll of toilet paper, tearing off sheets and handing them to Peter and Dodie. A reporter was approaching this trio, fair game in the Port-O-Potty zone, when the little boy put up one hand to ward the woman off, saying, “I bite reporters.”
End of interview.
Do die rocked on her heels and toes, and then she hummed. Louder now. Her father picked her up in his arms and never noticed that his child was pointing to the ground and the shadow of another man.
Click.
Mallory sat in a folding chair near a car that was not her own, fingers flying across the keyboard of a laptop computer that was not hers, either. Christine Nahlman sat down on a neighboring campstool, not offering any conversation, only keeping quiet company with the detective as she watched some of the younger agents search the caravan vehicles. Others were invading tents.
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