by Harker Moore
He dropped to his knees, then onto his back, lying on the grassy green he had laid. Arms stretched out to enfold them. And they came. Kits, alive, came to him. He embraced them against his inconstant heart.
And then Jason turned within the cradle of his arms, looking up.
“Why are you crying, Pun’kin Man? ’Cuz of your eyes?”
“Yes, Jason, yes . . .” The first time ever—a bitter joy found in tears.
CHAPTER
26
Wednesday afternoon. Sakura had gathered the three active members of his special unit for a short meeting. The small office was a little less crowded today, making everyone feel more acutely Darius’s absence.
“I know we’re all taking this case personally,” he began. “It is personal. But it’s more than that. Finding Michael’s sons is now key to finding this killer. I’m not saying neglect other leads if they develop. Every victim in this case is important. But these children may still be alive, and that has to be our first concern.
“Adelia”—he turned to her—“you’ve been coordinating with the teams in Westchester. Where are we with that?”
“They’re still out there”—Delia didn’t sound hopeful—“searching with volunteers now. But it’s a big area. He could’ve dumped those babies anywhere.”
Sakura turned to Talbot. “What about closer to home, Walt?”
“If those boys are alive and he’s brought them to the city, he’s hidden them well. Three-year-old twins with red hair are pretty conspicuous. You’d hope that someone would’ve spotted them by now, with all the coverage this thing’s been getting. And if he killed them here, where are the bodies? Search dogs and cadaver dogs have been all over the neighborhoods where he’s dumped before.”
“Let’s expand those searches,” Sakura said. “. . . Rozelli, you have something.”
Rozelli sat forward, shooting French cuffs that winked gold. “Canvassing around Gramercy Park turned up a witness,” he said. “A woman who claims she saw a dark van circling in the neighborhood the same morning Margot Redmond left for the gallery in Kingswood. No model or license plate. But she said she didn’t think it was the only time she’d seen it.”
“She get a look at the driver?” Adelia asked
Rozelli shook his head. “It’s an old woman,” he said. “Eyesight’s not so good. But it’s still somebody else who saw a van.”
“Dr. French thinks it’s possible that the killer wanted those boys,” Sakura said, refocusing attention, “that it wasn’t just a case of them being along with their mother. We need to keep pushing on detailing the last few weeks before their disappearance. Where they’d been. Who saw them. Anyone new who came into their lives. Get as many people as you need on it. Talk to everyone we’ve talked to again. And Walt . . .” He turned to Talbot. “I’ve been reviewing the Redmond interview list, and there are still people we haven’t gotten to yet.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Talbot fiddled with his tie, uncomfortable with being on the defensive. “It’s the usual scheduling problems. People like the Redmonds are hard to pin down. But none of the ones who are left on the list are high-priority.”
“You can’t know that.” Sakura let his irritation show. “Anyone can have a key bit of information, whether they’re aware of it or not. Walk into a boardroom, or a bedroom, if you have to. Remind these people there are children’s lives at stake.”
He let it sink in, then changed subject. “Most of the forensics are now in,” he said. “Nothing of significance was found on or in the Navigator. Nothing surprising in the autopsy report. The swabs were negative for DNA.”
The last brought a collective groan. Despite what had been obvious—that the killer had cleaned Margot’s body before wrapping and dumping it—everyone had been hoping for some residue of saliva at the site of the chewed tissue.
“As with all the other victims,” he went on, “there was no semen present. And in fact, there was no evidence at all of vaginal or anal penetration.”
“That’s different,” from Adelia.
“Yes,” Sakura agreed. “Dr. French thinks the killer may have been expressing rage toward his mother. The chewed nipples may not be an overtly sexual act, but rather a symbolic attack against the mother who failed to nurture.”
“Biting the breast that didn’t feed you.” Rozelli looked dubious. “Are we sure it’s not some copycat?”
“We can’t be a hundred percent,” Sakura answered, “but Dr. Linsky feels confident that the same man wrapped and taped the Visqueen. And despite the obvious differences in the mutilation of the body, there are other constants. Margot Redmond was subdued, abducted, and murdered while still unconscious. Her serology screens were negative for drugs, but the blow to the back of her skull was more than enough to put her out, and probably severe enough to have eventually killed her. Though it’s more probable that, like the other women, she died of suffocation.”
“Any good news?” Adelia asked.
“Yes. Dr. Bailey was able to get an excellent registration of the killer’s bite pattern.”
“So all we need is a suspect.” Talbot was ironic.
“What about that weird paper doll thing the Kahn woman got?” Adelia asked. “We ever get forensics back on that?”
“Nothing worthwhile,” Sakura said. “No fingerprints. And the scraps were cut from common magazines.”
“You think it was the killer who sent it?” she asked.
“I don’t think it matters.” Sakura was blunt. “The real message is the one he sent us. Those two empty car seats and Margot Redmond’s body.”
Sakura looked out the window onto Gramercy Park. There was an undertow of tension circling the hemmed-in square. He spotted two members of the press trying to maneuver closer to the Redmond home, and in the shroud of gray light he could sense the dry click of cameras in cold air. The empty park seemed held in a kind of time warp, in the bonds of an ill-fated enchantment.
That the park was the nexus of the kidnapping was becoming increasingly likely, since it was the place the twins were most publicly visible on a routine basis. Though how the kidnapping had suddenly intersected with the serial killings was still difficult to understand. If Willie’s hypothesis was correct, the killer’s fantasy had deep roots in a pathological hatred of his mother, and if the boys on some level represented him, then the kidnapping could embody a kind of rescue.
He turned and saw Reese Redmond pacing.
“Why the boys? Why couldn’t he have just left them in the SUV?” He stopped, pulled his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I keep going over and over the same questions.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Redmond. We’re asking the same questions.”
“And the answers, Lieutenant?”
“There is a possibility that Jason and Damon were specifically targeted.”
“But I thought this was about killing women.” His voice was bitter.
“Margot was not peripheral. She was an intended victim. Remember, though, a serial is not prompted by traditional motive, but operates out of fantasy.”
“That includes my two boys.”
“That is a legitimate conclusion, Mr. Redmond.”
“Jesus . . .” He slumped into a chair.
“That’s why we have to focus on your sons. Learn everything we can about their activities in the days prior to the kidnapping.”
“They’re only three years old.”
“We understand. But sometimes the most unremarkable detail proves significant. What was a typical day for the boys?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. . . . They went to Montessori school some mornings. Other mornings were spent at storytime at the library, or a museum exhibit. Sometimes they just went along with Margot if she had errands. She was a great mother, wanted them to see and do everything.” His voice broke. “I have to keep reminding myself that she’s dead.”
Sakura walked closer. How many times had he been tempted to say he understood how a person was fee
ling. But it was impossible to understand death in specific terms. Experiencing death was intensely personal. There was no way to make of it a common equation.
“I’ve brought Ms. Redmond’s date book.”
Redmond glanced up, as though trying to make sense of Sakura’s statement. “The date book . . .”
“I would like you to sit with Sergeant Johnson and go over the entries again.”
“I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’ll try.” The hand through the hair once more.
“And try to develop a time line for Jason and Damon. Start the two weeks prior to the kidnapping, and be as precise as you can.”
Redmond nodded. “She would have fought for the boys.”
“Yes, Mr. Redmond, I believe she would have.” But in truth Margot Redmond hadn’t had a chance to fight for herself or her sons.
Hanae wore her red coat, a soft gray beret on her head. Wool against the growing autumn cold. She stood on the steps, holding Taiko by his lead, and waved to Mr. Romero. In a moment she heard the idling engine shift gears and accelerate away from the curb. She’d told him to return in half an hour. Half an hour was all she needed.
She turned. “He will not be happy to see us,” she spoke to Taiko, entering the building, listening to the clipping sound of the shepherd’s nails against the floor of the lobby. She reached down and patted the dog. “I can smell him. Even here the wise old one lingers.”
She moved toward the private elevator that led to his floor. “We must keep our hearts hidden, Taiko,” she said as the door closed on the two of them, her fingers pressing the pattern of numbers she’d memorized. “He has been in the elevator today. This is good. He has not yet become a monk.”
A small jolt and the elevator stopped. The door slid open. There was only his apartment on the top floor. She counted the steps to his door. She removed her glove, felt the smooth refinished wood. Felt him inside the wood. A centering breath before she knocked.
For a moment she believed he would not answer. Then movement inside. His feet a slow march toward the door. Indecision.
She decided for him. “It is Hanae, Kenjin.”
The door opened. “Hanae.”
So much in just the speaking of her name.
The apartment was cold. The air thin and brittle. Empty. How quickly his anger had driven Willie’s scent from the rooms. She could feel him behind her. Then he walked up and she felt his hands on her shoulders, helping her off with her coat. She tugged on the lead and Taiko drew her into the living room, stopping near a familiar leather chair. She sat, removing her beret, stuffing it inside her purse.
She could sense he was watching her, standing still. Smelling of wool and wood and old pain. Taiko’s tail tapped a muffled beat on the rug.
“Taiko is happy to see you.”
“He’s the only one.”
“I am happy, Kenjin . . . and unhappy.”
He was moving now, away from her.
“Turning your back on me, Kenjin, will not stop my tongue.”
She heard his bitter laugh.
“I am truly sorry for your loss. To lose someone you love from this life is not without cost.” She took in breath. “But I sense your feelings have more to do with you, Kenjin, than with your former wife.”
She could feel his eyes. Hard. Curious.
“I told you once to be selfish. To do what you wanted.” She paused. “But this time I am telling you to not be selfish. To do what must be done.”
She could hear the sharp intake of his breath. “I’m on leave, and . . .”
“But Kenjin is not.”
He was listening.
“It is selfish to think you have brought this sadness. That you have caused this dark path that has opened. Holding yourself responsible places you at the center of this misfortune.” She stopped a moment. She could hear him move, come and sit on the floor in front of her. Taiko’s tail stepped up its rhythm.
“Kenjin, you must become as nothing. Only then you become everything. You were not Margot’s karma. You are not the karma of your sons. Margot’s destiny is as it is. You must let her go in peace. Without the burden of your guilt. Without your anger. But you can affect the path that still lies before your young sons. To do nothing is to yet think of yourself.”
“I can’t even feel if they . . .” He couldn’t finish the words.
“They live. And wait for you to come.”
“I am lost, Hanae.”
“No,” her word harsh. “You allow yourself to feel this. You know the path. It is unclear now. But it will come. I call you Kenjin because I can call you nothing else. It is what you are. Do not deny your higher self.”
At first, there was silence. Then the choking sound of grief. She reached and brought his face into her hands. “First tears, Kenjin. Then do.”
Charlotte Ryler was failing—failing at composure, failing at hope, failing at not blaming herself.
“I should have been more alert. I mean in the times in which we live, you can’t let your guard down even for a moment. I must have let my guard down. . . .” The tears came again. Big round tears down full pink cheeks. Ryler was a plain woman with a beautiful complexion. She had devoted most of her thirty-eight years to watching other people’s children.
“The children weren’t with you when they were taken, Ms. Ryler,” Sakura reminded the nanny. “They were with their mother.”
The mention of Margot Redmond caused Ryler to reach for her stomach. “I can’t even think about Mrs. Redmond. It’s so horrible.”
“Take a minute, Ms. Ryler.”
She shook her head, fumbling with a large white handkerchief. “What’s happening to this world, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Ryler.”
“I watched them every moment. I mean within reason. They were so active. Never stopping.”
“Did you go to the park often?”
“Gramercy?”
“Yes.”
“Most afternoons we went. They would play until they were exhausted. Or at least until I was exhausted. Of course, I could always settle them down by reading to them. They loved stories. God . . . I’m using the past tense.” She stared up. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“We don’t know that, Ms. Ryler.”
“They can’t be dead, they just can’t.”
“Did you notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary the last couple of weeks when you visited the park?”
She shook her head. “Except the weather. It got cooler. And I had a time getting the boys to keep their jackets on. Especially Jason. And of course, whatever Jason did, Damon followed. That’s how it usually is.”
“How what is, Ms. Ryler?”
“The older twin is usually dominant. Jason was older by six minutes.”
“So you didn’t notice anything unusual when you went to the park?”
“Nothing I would call unusual. I mean the boys were a handful. Every day was different.”
“How?”
“Jason and Damon were precocious. If Mrs. Solomon was walking her poodle in the park, the boys would run over and play with it. If Mr. Hammond was feeding the pigeons, the boys would join in. Things like that.”
“Would the boys talk to a stranger?”
“I’m afraid so. Both Mr. and Mrs. Redmond, as well as myself, gave them the ususal cautions. But the boys were very strong-willed. I remember . . .” She stopped.
“Go on, Ms. Ryler.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t remember this before. I mean you just don’t think that anyone who has a key to Gramercy Park would be anyone you’d mind speaking to the boys.”
The cold glare of late afternoon filled the single window of Sakura’s office. He sat in the chair behind his desk fingering the jade disk, the long-ago present of his uncle Ikenobo. His mind was restless today, a victim of conflicting emotion. His wife was now in every sense returned to him, and the joy of it warred with so much else that he felt. Foremost of which was guilt.
> He had forcefully assured McCauley that challenging the killer was the right way to proceed in an investigation that had stalled. True, when challenged, the monster might strike out, but a serial killer this developed did not stop. There would be more victims, whether the killer was publicly derided or not. If he killed a little quicker, a little angrier, well, that was the point. Stir emotion, fog the brain. The monster might get sloppy.
Or he might get even.
Despite both Hanae and Willie having sought to soften the burden of his responsibility, he had understood immediately that what had happened to Margot and the twins might possibly have been a response to what had been said at that press conference. And possibly was the straw at which his mind still caught. Because Darius was very low-profile, and his relationship to Margot Redmond was certainly not a piece of common knowledge. It seemed a stretch that the killer could have intentionally targeted Michael’s ex-wife, and yet the likelihood that Margot had been a random selection seemed even more improbable, more so since she’d been followed up to Westchester. Certainly the media were convinced that Margot’s murder and the twins’ disappearance were acts of deliberate retaliation.
He stood and walked to the window, simply for the relief of movement, but the dying afternoon cast dreary shadows in the plaza. He had not spoken to Michael since Friday when they had been alone at his car. He had tried to phone, but his friend had not picked up, and he’d received no answer to the messages he’d left. He had hoped that Willie, at least, might be able to see Michael through the worst of this, but he’d hardly been surprised by her announcement this morning that she had moved out of the apartment.
He feared for Michael. But he knew that his own need to make some apology was selfish and worse than inadequate. There was nothing he could give beyond his absolute determination to find the twins and deliver Margot’s killer.
The best and the worst of it was that his strategy had not failed. The killer had acted out his rage, and the pattern of his teeth in Margot’s flesh would someday convict him. He had to believe that, believe that he would find the monster who matched those bite marks. The worst was that he could never forget that the price of that victory would always be Margot’s life, and too likely the lives of Michael’s sons.