Formula of Deception

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “I didn’t realize the time. It’s hard to track with almost twenty hours of daylight.” She shrugged. “I wanted to make copies of the sketch I did with Vasily at the library, but it’s closed now. Can we stop on the way to the floatplane?”

  “The copy shop at the harbor will be open before we have to leave.”

  “That works.”

  Bertie was silent for the rest of the drive, apparently as weary from the work as Murphy was. Dampness had seeped into the car, and the heater worked valiantly, but Murphy shivered all the way home. June may be a warm month elsewhere, but on Kodiak it would be a few more weeks before she’d wander outside in shorts.

  Mr. Brinkley was pressed against the door of her place, a dour expression on his face for having to wait in the rain.

  “Sorry, Mr. B.” She unlocked the door, then dashed inside. After kicking off her shoes, she hung her jacket on the hook and shook the rain from her hair. The scent of dinner in the Crock-Pot made her mouth water. The fragrance of cooked food made the one-room apartment feel homey. Murphy’s single bed held a potpourri of colorful pillows. Throw rugs covered the yellow-and-white tile floor. Her easel and taboret took advantage of one of the three windows. There was no room for a sofa, and her only chairs were pushed under the kitchen table.

  It wasn’t as if she had any visitors, and certainly no male callers, so the seating arrangements would be a problem.

  She pictured Joshua standing in the center of the room, then shook her head. “Married, remember? That is so not going to happen.”

  The cat meowed.

  “Yes, I could paint him. But how pathetic is that? I’m such a cliché. Living alone, single, mooning over a married man, with a cat—”

  The cat yowled.

  “Right, I don’t own you. But I think I need a dog. A cute little mutt to sit in my lap.” She reached for the cat food. Gone. She’d fed Brinkley the end of the bag and hadn’t been to the store. “You’re getting tuna. Better not complain. That was for my lunch this week.” After opening the can, she dumped it into the cat bowl and placed it on the floor. She tossed the can in the trash, then pulled out a plate and served her own dinner.

  She sat at the table and stared out the window for a moment.

  What a strange day.

  The old house. Green shag carpet. Smell of cordite. Dead—

  She jerked, then blinked. The light in the room had brightened.

  Focusing on her dinner, she took a bite. The food was cold. “What?” She slammed down her fork. The stupid Crock-Pot must have turned off sometime in the afternoon. Great.

  Murphy stood and moved her plate to the counter. She could shred the chicken and give it to the cat tomorrow in case she didn’t get to the store.

  In a small box by the door, she spotted the mail Myra had left.

  She froze.

  On top of some junk mail was an envelope addressed to Dakota M. Andersen.

  Her breath knotted at the back of her throat. The letter had come through a mail-forwarding service she used in Anchorage.

  Circling the table, she stared at the brown kraft envelope.

  The cat yowled.

  She jumped. “Okay, Mr. B., I’ll put you out.” Her voice shook. She opened the door, but the cat just stared at the rain.

  The envelope was torn and smeared with ink from the cheap damp flier underneath. She emptied the contents. A single legal-size letter. She opened it and sat down. The letter was printed on regular copy paper.

  Alaska Department of Corrections

  Victim/Witness Notification Program

  Dear Ms. Andersen,

  You are enrolled in the Advanced Notification Program by the Department of Corrections specific to Clinton Lamour Hunter. According to our statutes, upon any escapes from a correctional facility, the Department of Corrections shall immediately notify, by the most reasonable and expedient means available, the chief of police of the city and the sheriff of the county in which the inmate resided immediately before the inmate’s arrest . . .

  Her head buzzed, and the letter dropped from her numb fingers. After a moment she picked it up again.

  . . . We attempted to call you, as prescribed, but found your phone was no longer in service. This is your notification that Clinton Lamour Hunter has escaped custody. His whereabouts are unknown. We strongly urge you to contact your local police or sheriff’s department and to update your contact information with our office.

  Her stomach constricted, and her hand flew to the scar under her eye. He can’t be loose. How could Clinton Hunter, the Anchorage serial killer, have escaped?

  Would he come looking for her? Again? She hadn’t needed any witness protection program after he’d been incarcerated, only a notice if his status changed. The Victim/Witness Notification Program was the only entity that had her old address—indeed, any of her addresses.

  The walls closed in on her. Her breathing came in sharp gasps. She stumbled backward, then fell, tipping over the cat food dish. Slowly she reached over and stopped the bowl from clattering.

  When she righted herself, she slammed and locked the kitchen door. She raced to each window to pull the blinds, then to the closet. She pulled down her suitcase, placed it on the bed, and started grabbing clothes from the top drawer of her dresser. She could leave her art supplies. Just take her brushes. Enough clothes to fill one suitcase. Catch the flight—no, ferry. She could take her bike on the ferry.

  She paused, hands full of T-shirts. How would she pay for it? More importantly, she needed ID. And her driver’s license had been stolen. Without a license, she couldn’t go on either a plane or a ferry. Not until she got a new one. And applying for a license required a social security number, proof of residency, and date of birth. She was off everyone’s radar right now, but she’d show up once she applied. The press had hounded her before. They’d do so again if they found her.

  And Clinton Hunter? He’d want to kill her.

  She put the shirts back in the drawer. This time things would be different. She wasn’t going to be a helpless victim ever again. She touched her scar.

  Murphy picked up the framed photo of her twin sister and sat at the table. Mr. Brinkley jumped onto the next chair, curled up, and closed his eyes.

  “What should I do, sis?” she whispered.

  Her sister stared outward at a point in space.

  “Please talk to me. Tell me what happened. Why did you come to Kodiak?”

  Her sister didn’t reply.

  They’d never found her sister’s body, only blood. Not even enough blood to make the police check it out. She’d had to tell them about her suspicions, and even then, they were reluctant to follow up.

  But eventually they found all the other bodies.

  She stroked the carved walrus ivory necklace she’d made from her sister’s earring. Her throat closed up thinking about the uncertainty, the waiting, the hoping. Even the prayers. The stupid, useless prayers.

  She’d felt so helpless then. So driven now. Her mission.

  After returning the photograph to the table, she moved to the suitcase. No rush on packing. No place to run to. No way to get off Kodiak.

  Those five dead men on Ruuwaq, her sister finally responded. They had families, just like you. You can help bring closure to them. Their families have been waiting for years.

  “You always were the smart one, Dallas, the practical one,” she said.

  And you were always the strong one, Dakota, her sister whispered back.

  “I’m not strong. I’m always afraid.”

  Strength comes from being afraid, facing it, then triumphing over it.

  Her eyes burned from unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, sis.”

  Don’t be, she whispered back. Just get to the truth.

  Mr. Brinkley hopped off the chair and sauntered to the door. She peered through the blinds. Though it was late, the northern sun wasn’t ready to set. The rain had stopped. Clouds once again painted the sky in smoky gray. Out in Shahafka Cove, a fishi
ng boat escorted by a seagull caucus headed to port. She let the cat out.

  Murphy unpacked the few things she’d thrown into the suitcase and put it away. She placed a blank canvas on her easel. Beside it, tubes of acrylic were lined up on her taboret by color.

  Starting a painting now was out of the question.

  Concentrate on the ordinary. Focus.

  Checking the tray of sea glass, she noted she was getting low. She’d head out to the beach behind Boy Scout Lake to collect more this week. The beach by the trailer park had better pickings, but now it was in private hands.

  Murphy picked up the letter from the Department of Corrections. Myra would find it if she left it lying around. Murphy returned it to the envelope and put it into her pencil bag. She opened a backpack, added a sketchbook and the pencil bag, then set it by the door.

  After dividing and freezing her dinner, reserving some chicken for Mr. Brinkley, she made a small pot of coffee and prepared for a long night.

  She was standing in the center of the living room of the old house. The coffee table lay on its side, one leg broken off. The sofa was slashed, with stuffing spilling onto the floor. Graffiti was spray-painted on the walls. In the center of the room was a bare mattress leaking filler from its stained and worn ticking. A filthy sheet covered someone dozing, tangled hair splayed across the mattress.

  Harsh breathing sounded behind her.

  She turned in slow motion. The shiny knife slashed down her face. She tried to scream but no sound came out.

  Her body slammed onto the floor.

  Heart ramming her ribs, Murphy opened her eyes. The chair was on its side next to her. The cold yellow-and-white tile of Myra’s basement apartment was beneath her. Early-morning light peeked through the blinds of one window.

  She pushed off the floor, grunting, then checked the time. She’d fallen asleep at the table and had that dream again. The dream she thought she’d outgrown or left behind.

  Bertie Fisher would be arriving in a few hours to pick her up for the trip to Ruuwaq. Good. She needed to get away from the claustrophobic basement—though flying out to look for five long-dead men on a remote island would hardly get her mind off of murder.

  CHAPTER 6

  Murphy hadn’t asked Bertie what to wear, so she contented herself with the standard Kodiak attire of jeans, hooded sweatshirt, rain jacket, and Xtratuf rubber boots.

  Promptly at eight, Bertie drove up. Murphy bolted her last gulp of coffee, grabbed her backpack and jacket, made sure no one else was lurking, and joined Bertie in the car. A cold, wet breeze stirred the trees, and the air smelled of saltwater and fish.

  Bertie wore khaki pants, waterproof duck shoes, and a black tactical vest with a variety of pouches and compartments. Her name was embroidered on one pouch and Crime Scene on another. A hooded rainproof jacket was in the back seat. She put the sedan into gear. “You need to make copies of the drawing, right?”

  “Yes. So we can each have one to write on. I’ll transfer all the measurements and information to the original before turning it in to Elin.”

  “I like that. You’re meticulous. I noticed that before.”

  “Before?”

  “When you were measuring the house, of course.”

  “I’m happy you didn’t call it obsessive-compulsive.”

  “Persnickety came to mind.”

  Murphy grinned. “Precise?”

  “Conscientious.”

  As they drove, Murphy kept her head down and fiddled with the strap of her art bag. When they reached the harbor printer, she dashed inside and made several copies, then jogged back to the car. Bertie was on her cell when she returned.

  “That was Richard Zinkerton, the other technician,” Bertie said after hanging up. “He’ll arrive later today. He’s taking over the double homicide and is in a royal snit that he can’t fly out to the island with us, but the weather might not hold.”

  “Whatever you think is best—”

  “What’s best is to do whatever we can before he arrives. He’s a pain in the patootie.” Bertie grimaced and muttered, “I can’t believe they’re sending him.”

  “Ah. I see. You’re saying you could throw Richard in a lake and skim attitude for a week.”

  Bertie chuckled as she started the car and pulled out into the street. “Also, because it’s in their jurisdiction, as you know, usually an Alaska State Trooper would go with us, but no one is available right now. They said go ahead and start the preliminary investigation and evidence collection.”

  Murphy nodded and slid down in her seat. The longer she kept up this pretense, the more likely she was to give herself away with a massive blunder.

  “Elin told me we have to navigate a small cliff once we get to the island,” Bertie said when she stopped for the traffic light. “I borrowed a telescoping ladder. Hopefully the cliff will be under eight feet. We’ll be hauling a crime-scene kit, camera, sifting screen, and grid-marking kit in backpacks, assuming you don’t have a lot of gear yourself.”

  “I travel light.” Murphy patted her backpack. “Just two clipboards, a sketchpad, and some pencils and markers in a pencil bag.”

  “Hmm. That backpack won’t hold all that we need to take. I’ve got an extra. Someone from the police department will be meeting us with a metal detector before we fly. We’ll drag the detector up the cliff by rope.”

  Bertie turned on Mill Bay Road and continued to Lily Lake, a long, narrow body of water filled with floatplanes and edged with water lily pads. Houses lined one side of the lake, while commercial buildings bordered the opposite shore. They parked in a dirt lot and strolled to a small dock where the floatplane waited. A man wearing an Alaska Department of Public Safety baseball cap and blue overalls strolled from a nearby metal building. He carried a black-and-gray parka. His resemblance to the actor Sam Elliott was remarkable.

  “Thought you’d be here earlier.” He headed to the dock. “I don’t like the look of the weather.”

  Murphy gazed up at the cloudless sky. Bertie shrugged. They trailed after him to a parked de Havilland Beaver.

  Bertie caught up. “I’m Bertie Fisher, and you are . . .?”

  “Jake. Jake Swayne, Alaska Wildlife Trooper. If you or the kid has to go to the bathroom, do it now. Bathrooms are in that building. If not, bring your gear to the dock and get in. Kid”—he pointed at Murphy—“get in the front.” He continued to prepare the plane for takeoff.

  He’s about as warm and fuzzy as Mr. Brinkley. Murphy returned to the rear of the car to help unload.

  Bertie hauled out a pair of oversized backpacks and placed the crime-scene kit in one and the grid-marking kit and sifting screen in the other. “You can put your drawing stuff in this one.” She handed a black one to Murphy. “Ya know, Murph, you’re easy to work with. And you have good instincts. I take it you’re not working right now because . . .?”

  “I’m on sabbatical.”

  “Well, if you decide to stay here instead of returning to your department, maybe you should consider applying for a job with the Alaska crime lab. We don’t have a forensic artist on staff and always seem to need additional personnel.” She slung the backpack over her shoulders.

  “Do you have enough work for a forensic artist full-time?”

  Bertie shrugged. “I think once departments learn all you can do for them, sure. And a lot of the things we do in the crime lab you could learn on the job.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Of course, I don’t usually encourage thin people to apply.” She patted her double chin. “Your type makes me feel fat. Fatter.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I used to weigh a great deal more.”

  “No! I don’t believe you.”

  “Absolutely. My thighs used to applaud my every step.”

  “How’d ya do it? I’ve tried everything but having my stomach stapled. And please don’t tell me diet and exercise. Those are cuss words.”

  Murphy’s weight-loss plan was equal parts worry, gri
ef, and fear. She almost said so. But a patrol car parked next to them, and Joshua stepped out. He spotted them and waved.

  “I brought the metal detector and two probes you asked for, Bertie.” He grabbed the items from the trunk, then strolled over with the detector and a pair of T-shaped, four-foot long, yellow metal rods.

  “My, oh my,” Bertie muttered. “That man is eye candy and I gotta sweet tooth.”

  “Thank you,” Murphy said to Joshua, then adjusted her glasses so her hand covered her scar. “If you, um, could put those on the plane . . .?”

  He sauntered to the dock and handed the tools to Jake, moving with the fluid grace of someone who had earned a black belt.

  She expected him to leave as soon as he was done, but after he’d handed over the supplies, he returned to her.

  You can’t stand here forever with your hand hiding your scar. She picked up the backpack Bertie had given her and slung it over her shoulder. The weight almost tipped her sideways.

  Joshua grabbed the backpack before she fell and slipped the other strap over her shoulder. She knew her face would be red but hoped it wasn’t obvious.

  “Hey, Murphy.” He leaned against Bertie’s car. “I just wanted to apologize for calling you an Explorer Scout yesterday. I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  “No offense taken.”

  “Would you allow me to take you to dinner sometime to make it up to you?”

  Her gaze went to the wedding ring on his finger. “No, thank you.”

  He noted her glance, held up his left hand, and wiggled his fingers. “I’m not married. I wear this to discourage unwanted attention. Not that it works particularly well.”

  Murphy’s mouth dropped open. She made an effort to shut it.

  His cheeks reddened slightly. “That sounded bad.”

  “The answer is still no thank you.” Murphy pushed past him, her hand brushing his arm. It was like shoving against a rock.

  Bertie stood near the dock, eyes wide as Murphy approached. “Did he just ask you out? And did you honestly turn him down? What’s the matter with you, girl?”

  “As my mother used to say, he’s a self-made man and loves his creator. I don’t need that kind of ego.”