Find Me

by Carol O'Connell

  17

  A new insurrection had begun. Charles Butler stood at the heart of the crowd, yet Riker had found him. The detective carried a plastic sack, the fruits of a beer run to a liquor store. “What’s going on?”

  “Trouble.” Charles pointed to an embedded reporter from a cable news network. The man was standing on the hood of a car, and his voice was amplified by a bullhorn. “He’s trying to convince the parents to drive the scenic route to Santa Fe.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” said Riker, as he popped the tab on a beer can and took a deep swallow. “The caravan would choke the Santa Fe loop in fifteen minutes.”

  Now Mallory was visible in the distance as she climbed onto the hood of a pickup truck to stand two heads taller than the newsman. She needed no bullhorn. the crowd was hushed, waiting, and then she said, “Come nightfall, you’ll all be strung out as easy pickings in a mile-long traffic jam.” She slowly revolved to catch every pair of eyes in this large group of parents, federal agents and media. “And there’s no point in taking that route.”

  “That’s not true!” The cable newsman shouted into his bullhorn to regain the crowd’s attention. “I can guarantee two solid hours of airtime for every day on the Santa Fe loop!” Raising the ante of his bid, he yelled, “You get the prime-time slot!”

  “There were no bodies found on that segment of the old road,” said Mallory, and hundreds of heads swiveled to face her again. “None of your children ever went that way.”

  “If that was true,” said the cable reporter, “then the FBI agent in charge wouldn’t have approved my route change.” He lowered his bullhorn and climbed down from the hood of his car. Now he had to crane his neck to look up at her and smile. In an unamplified voice he said, “The negotiations are over, Detective.”

  “Wrong,” she said.

  Charles looked around with the vantage point of the tallest man standing. Dale Berman, the agent in charge, was nowhere to be seen, and Riker had also disappeared. He turned his eyes to Mallory, who still had the high ground atop the truck’s hood.

  The reporter at her feet raised his bullhorn again. “It’s a done deal, Detective. We’re going to Santa Fe.”

  Mallory removed her jacket, the better to display her gun, and now she clipped her gold shield to a belt loop of her jeans. Hands on hips, she addressed the reporter. “I don’t want any doubt in your mind that this is a lawful police order. Now shut your mouth!”

  Undeterred, the reporter yelled at her. “Freedom of the press, Detective! Ever heard of the Constitution of the—”

  “I got it memorized,” said Riker, stepping out of the crowd to grab a handful of the reporter’s shirt, and now he was dragging the man backward across the campground, his voice trailing off as he loosely paraphrased the reporter’s constitutional right to remain silent. “Don’t flap your mouth anymore.”

  And now Mallory owned the crowd. All eyes were on her and every camera lens. The cameras loved her more than the man from the cable news network.

  “The Santa Fe loop is part of the old route from the thirties. That’s your great-grandfather’s idea of Route 66—not the killer’s. He dug his graves along the old trucking route from the sixties. That’s his Route 66—and yours.”

  As she went on to describe all the changes and versions of this shifting historic highway, Charles Butler realized that she had slipped into someone else’s words. At times she reminded him of a schoolgirl reciting memorized lines of poems.

  The poetry ended. Her hands curled into fists.

  “The next stop is Clines Corners,” she said. “It’s been a landmark on this road for over sixty years. If you take the old Santa Fe loop, you can’t get there from here. Your cars won’t move. You’ll be sitting in the dark—waiting. You think rolling up the windows will protect you?” Mallory pointed at the reporter in Riker’s custody. “You think he cares? Hey, fresh blood means a bonus where he comes from. His network turned dead children into a damn TV show, a soap opera. He wants to drag this out. That’s the only reason for the side trip. And more time on the tube—that’s like currency to you. It’s all about money. He wants to buy your kids. Dead or alive, same price.”

  The caravan was under way—Mallory’s way. Her final selling point to the crowd had been the fact that long traffic jams were only worth a mention on the evening news. The reporters would desert them for better entertainment—action shots of the police unearthing small bodies on the old trucker’s route. And now her silver convertible prowled the shotgun lane of I-40 as she watched for strays up and down the line of vehicles.

  Of all the dead who rode with Mallory, she was most compatible with Ariel Finn, perhaps because the teenager never spoke; she could not, for the detective had never heard the sound of the girl’s voice. In Mallory’s version of this murder victim, the pale skin was without blemish or bruises or gaping wounds, and the girl was made whole again; her severed hand had been restored. Ariel raised it as the small silver car approached Joe Finn’s old Chevy. Dodie’s face was pressed to the glass of the passenger window when dead Ariel waved to her little sister.

  And Dodie—waved—back.

  Mallory pushed the gas pedal to the floor and turned up the volume on the radio, blasting Ariel out of the passenger seat, leaving the dead girl and little Dodie far behind. She could not leave them fast enough.

  So this was fear.

  The car went screaming down the road, her radio blasting the heavy-metal music of Black Sabbath, drums gone wild, all the thrill of a crash without the carnage. But Mallory had the sense of heading into some distant wall and a crash of another kind, one that made no sound at all.

  At the landmark travel plaza, where the caravan stopped for food and gas, Riker stood in conversation with the manager, a silver-haired man in a crisp white shirt and black vest. Joe Villanueva had worked at Clines Corners through three generations of owners and renovations.

  He had already consoled Detective Riker on the loss of the horseshoe bar, and now he explained the disappearance of the buffalo mural. “It’s been gone for a long time. We took out that wall to make room for more tables. You’re the second customer to ask about the mural.” The manager turned to point at Mallory, who was examining a display of straw cowboy hats. “She says she’s never been here before, but she even knew the color of the old carpet.”

  Riker worked his way through the press of people in the gift shop, aiming for the dining room on the other side of the building. Though this place was accustomed to handling large tour groups, the swollen caravan and its media entourage had filled two dining rooms to capacity. Some people jammed the lines of a nearby fast-food counter and carried their meals outside. Others waited for tables to be liberated, and those who were seated waited for menus.

  But Charles Butler had managed to secure a table, and it was already laden with food and drink.

  As Riker sat down to his customary cheeseburger—and damn the fries were good—he asked how his friend had done this trick, and the answer was “Magic.” The detective was left to imagine a sleight-of-hand where Charles had made a fistful of cash appear, or maybe it had been a more tasteful hundred-dollar bill. It was easy to pick out their lucky waitress by the broad smile on the young woman’s face.

  “You look worried,” said Charles.

  The detective inhaled the rest of his meal and lit a post-cheeseburger cigarette. “Mallory knows things about this road—about this place—things she never got from a guidebook. And I know she’s never been here before.”

  “Well, the letters might’ve given her—”

  “Her father’s letters. Yeah, maybe Peyton Hale has a fixation on this road. You think he might be anything like his kid?” And by that Riker meant to ask if the ruthless streak of a sociopath could run in families.

  And so it was predictable that the man who loved Mallory would change the subject. “I hope she turns up before her food gets cold.”

  “She’ll be along,” said Riker.

  “Mallor
y? I just saw her in the gift shop,” said Dale Berman as he sat down with them uninvited. “She’s buying a cowboy hat.” His words were aimed at Riker. “It fits, doesn’t it? True colors you might say. A cowboy hat for a gunslinger.”

  Riker exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, and the game was on.

  Mallory wore her newly purchased cowboy hat into the parking lot, where she opened the door to a car that was not hers. She had a preference for robbery in broad daylight and in plain sight. And, as she had anticipated, no one had noticed her popping the lock on government property. After ransacking one vehicle, she went on to the next one on her to-do list.

  The agents posted outside were running a ragged pace, trying to separate departing tourists and reporters from parents, checking credentials and checking clipboards, and none of them even glanced toward the cluster of FBI cars. The caravan had swelled to ungovernable numbers, and the boys and girls on parking-lot duty were newly minted agents fresh from the academy. Their eyes were glazing over. Because no one had told them their task was impossible, they could only assume they were doing it wrong.

  And they were.

  Paradoxical Mallory—who despised clutter and knew the names of every cleaning solvent on the planet, Mallory the Neat—thrived on chaos. There was no better cover for breaking and entering. If anyone remembered her in the vicinity of government vehicles, she truly believed that they would only recall the standout detail of the cowboy hat—not the shape of a tall, slender blonde who moved with deep grace, her hair catching sunlight as if it caught fire. And who would remember her unforgettable face? If she did not see these things in her own mirror, then why should anyone else take notice?

  When she was done raiding the second car, Mallory dropped the brand-new cowboy hat in the trash on her way back to the restaurant.

  Charles Butler was an innocent bystander without the luxury of being able to dive underneath the table as the detective and the FBI agent traded salvos across the dinnerware.

  Riker glanced at the window on the parking lot, where another search of caravan vehicles had begun. He took a drag on his cigarette and sent a stream of smoke in Agent Berman’s direction. “So I’m guessing you didn’t find any baby bones in the first search.”

  “That’s not what I’m looking for.” The FBI agent laid an open pocketknife on the table. “This is consistent with the weapon that was used on Gerald Linden’s throat. Ask your buddy, Kronewald. It was his pathologist’s finding. That was before we—”

  “Before your ghouls made off with the body?” Riker smiled so in sincerely. “Yeah, those Chicago cops are quick.” The detective looked down at the weapon on the table. “You arrested Nahlman yet? Her Swiss Army knife has the same size blade.”

  Berman’s own smile was equally disingenuous. “I’m not looking for a knife anymore. Today, I’m hoping to find a hatchet.”

  Charles glanced at the window on the parking lot. The trunks of cars yawned open, as did the doors of mobile homes, and tarps had been pulled away from the beds of pickup trucks.

  “A hatchet.” Riker splayed his hands. “You lost me, Dale. I guess that would only make sense to a fed.”

  The FBI man leaned toward the detective, and Charles Butler backed up in his chair, as if anticipating splatters from a messy food fight.

  “It’s really easy,” said the agent, “to separate a hand from a little skeleton, but what about the adult kills? Fresh kills—meat and muscle and bone.” Dale Berman handed the pocketknife across the table to the detective, and this was perhaps a mistake in Charles’s view.

  “Look at that blade, Riker. It’ll slash a throat easy enough, but do you really think you could chop off a man’s hand with that thing?”

  “Nothing easier, Dale.”

  Charles Butler bit down on his lower lip. The detective had a dangerous air of glee about him as he laid the cutting edge of the knife across Dale Berman’s wrist. The FBI agent not only allowed this, but the man’s smile got inexplicably wider, and he never even glanced at the sharp blade that rested on his bare skin.

  Countdown. One second, two seconds.

  Never taking his eyes off of Berman, the detective said, “Charles, do me a favor? Go outside and find me a rock? Not too heavy, just big enough to drive this blade home to the bone.”

  Enough said.

  Now that the FBI man could see how the thing was done, he withdrew his hand from the demonstration. And Riker, the clear winner, dropped the knife in the center of the table.

  “If you had the perp’s knife,” said Riker, “you’d see the damage from the rock coming down on the top edge of the blade. But what are the odds he’ll get caught with the murder weapon? He can buy a new pocketknife in any pit stop on this road.”

  Dale Berman took this as his cue to leave the table, and when he was gone, Charles turned to Riker. “You really think the killer used a knife to cut off the hands?”

  “Naw,” said Riker, “it was probably a hatchet, but that was fun.” The detective watched the ongoing parking-lot search. Agents had opened the mobile home that dispensed camping equipment to newcomers, and now scores of brand-new hatchets were being laid out on the ground. “What a waste of time. What are the odds of finding a bloody hatchet with a store of new ones for the taking? That trailer’s never locked. Dale’s losing more IQ points every day.”

  “What did that man do to you and Mallory?”

  “Nothing. It was what he did to Lou.”

  Charles smiled—patiently.

  Reluctantly, Riker gave up the story of Inspector Louis Markowitz and the FBI. Between puffs of smoke, he described the day when Agent Berman joined the task force—to everyone’s surprise. “Dale used to be a public relations man for the Bureau. That means he sat on a lot of barstools with angry cops and nosey reporters. After getting blind drunk with Dale, sometimes I forgot why I hated feds.”

  “You liked him then,” said Charles.

  “Well, the drinks were free.”

  “He used to be your friend. That’s why you always use his first name.”

  “He talked more like a cop in those days,” said Riker. “Or maybe that was all for show. He said he always wanted to be a field agent. Well, he wasn’t blowing smoke that time. He actually asked for a demotion. Lower pay, and no expense account for barstool duty. It made more sense to me later on—after Dale screwed us over. FBI careers are made on big cases—big wins, but the PR guys only come out of the woodwork when things go sour. So it was a good career move for Dale. His first time out with a task force, he talks Lou into taking his help on a kidnapping. A little boy was being held for ransom. Well, normally that’s a slam-dunk for NYPD. Hard to make a ransom pickup without getting caught, and the perps who try it are bone stupid. But this case was high profile. The kid came from money—big money, lots of pressure to wrap it fast. So we split the legwork with the feds. Lou had a prime suspect early on, but Dale alibied the guy with a bogus field report, and then he leaked the kidnapping to the press. Now the police phone lines are choked with calls and leads that go nowhere.”

  “But why would he—”

  “It kept us busy while Dale followed up on Lou’s suspect.”

  “The one he alibied.”

  “Right. So Dale’s crew works the case around the cops, and they bungle it. The suspect gets maimed in a high-speed chase across the bridge into Jersey. The kidnapper’s comatose. The victim’s still out there—God knows where. And Lou Markowitz is so pissed off, he kicks all the feds out of the house. Now the old man puts every dick and uniform on the street to work their snitches. We get the name and address of our guy’s favorite whore—and that’s where we find the kid.”

  “Alive?”

  “Oh, sure. The NYPD always brings them home. But the FBI? Not such a great record. So the boy was fine. He thought this prostitute was his new nanny. And the kid really liked that whore. She let him stay up late on school nights.”

  “And that’s why you and Mallory hate Dale Berman?”

  “
No, Charles, that’s not what you asked.”

  “But, the other day, Berman was right when he said no one died.”

  The detective bowed his head. This was Charles’s only clue that someone had died. And there would be no more discussion on this matter. It was too hard on Riker.

  Mallory appeared beside Charles’s chair, and he wondered how long she had been standing there. He smiled, fully realizing that this expression gave him the look of a lunatic in love. “Hello! Sit down. Your lunch is cold. Sorry.”

  No matter, for she was in the company of a young state trooper, who juggled a plastic bag and a tray with one hand so he could pull out a chair for her at the table. Once she was seated, the officer laid a plate of hot food in front of her.

  “I hope it’s the way you like it, ma’am.” The eager young man in uniform removed his hat before he sat down at the table. As Charles introduced himself and Riker, it was clear that the trooper only had eyes for Mallory, who was making short work of her steak and fries.

  Riker explained the trooper’s presence to Charles. “I asked the state cops to find the Pattern Man. He defected again.”

  “Oh, if you mean Mr. Kayhill,” said the trooper, “we found him for you, sir. He’s dead.” The young man continued to smile at Mallory as he relayed this sad news. “Found him in the desert. A helicopter spotted his mobile home a mile from the nearest road.”

  “Was one of his hands missing?” Mallory bit into a French fry drenched with ketchup.

  “Ma’am, I couldn’t name three things that weren’t missing, and there’s not much flesh on what was left behind.”

  “So the buzzards got him,” said Riker.

  “No, sir, no buzzards. We do have turkey vultures out there, but they didn’t make off with his head. I guess every bobcat and coyote for miles around had a turn at the body. We’re still looking for arms and legs.”

  “So tell me,” said Riker, “how’d you make the identification?”

  “Well, sir, we had a good portion of the torso, so Mr. Kayhill’s doctor made the ID over the telephone. The man was born with an extra rib. It’s him all right.” The trooper handed a black plastic bag across the table. “Some of his things—if you wouldn’t mind having a look. Oh, and a Detective Kronewald in Chicago sends his regards.” The trooper nodded to the plastic bag. “He said you might want to check that out.”