Formula of Deception

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “That’s how I see it. I don’t know how long it took for the dog to get sick, or how the dog gave it to the men, because we don’t know how long the men were on the island before they died. The next event is the one I’m guessing even more about. Someone else comes along and burns the bodies, getting rid of the evidence.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “And many years later, Bertie and I travel to Ruuwaq, again without getting sick, let alone dying, because we don’t have a dog. Or a cat.” She took a deep breath. This had better be good, or she’d never get such a chance to save her sister and kill Clinton Hunter. “I’ve put a few things together.”

  He gave a go-ahead sign with his hand.

  “I believe Jake was keeping an eye on that island for the family. An alternative theory is that Jake used to be a spotter for a fishing fleet, so he could have seen the bodies then. He tells Denali. Leif somehow finds out. Leif knows the significance of those bodies—he knows his work on the island was a success. Suddenly he has the ultimate weapon—a biological weapon that he can sell to the highest bidder.” She looked at Ryan. “And the US government is at the head of the line.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Leif tells Denali to get rid of the evidence. If anyone finds the bodies, there will be questions. Leif pushes all the right buttons, telling Denali that his family’s reputation is at stake. So Denali sends the people he trusts most to clean up the island, the ones who would never betray the family.”

  “His own daughter and son-in-law. Yes.”

  “Lucas’s parents do as they are told. But they have a cat.”

  Ryan nodded. “And that cat caught a rat and became infected, and things ran their course.”

  She circled the word rat. “That’s the way I see it. And the virus would work quickly. Lucas’s parents probably died the same terrible death, maybe even on their way home from the island. Denali would have blamed Leif. He was so distraught he got in a car wreck that crippled him and killed his wife. Everything could be laid on Leif and his work. I don’t know if Leif ever confessed his real identity.”

  “Good job. Seems like you covered most of the bases.”

  “Not quite.” She placed the pen on the paper. “Leif goes into a nursing home and dies suddenly.”

  “Most unexpected. Yes. We’d just about concluded the deal.”

  “Did it occur to you that he might have destroyed his notes? That he had nothing to offer?”

  “No. He wanted the money too badly.” Ryan nodded.

  “So the trail goes cold, as in cold for ten years.”

  “We had people in place, keeping an eye on things.”

  “I imagine. People like Olga?”

  Ryan didn’t answer.

  “Whoever was watching the family and waiting for a break must have heard about Vasily and his revelation, but this person was much lower on the food chain. So you show up. As you already said, you’re the authority. You were sent in to negotiate the deal with . . . Denali?”

  Ryan didn’t answer.

  “I’d guess, given what happened to Jake, you came to clean up any loose ends.”

  “Let’s just say I create plausible deniability for the US government should anything go south.” He smiled, but his eyes remained hard. “I didn’t expect Vasily’s murder, or how fast the cover-up would occur.”

  “Ruuwaq?”

  “Yes. The other night when you mentioned a rat on the island, either Denali or Jake knew they had to destroy the last evidence of Leif’s work.”

  “The last living evidence. The island was scoured of life.”

  Ryan folded his arms. “I don’t suppose you have an idea about where Leif hid his research notes?”

  She bit her lip. Lucas’s words came back to her. I overheard Grandpa say he’d find it here, but when I asked, he only said “something from the past.” “I think I might, but I need to make a phone call.”

  Ryan frowned but brought her a landline. “Do you know the number?”

  She shook her head. He pulled a phone book from the desk drawer. She quickly turned to the yellow pages, found the number, and dialed.

  “Perkins Headstones and Memorials.”

  “Hi. I need to . . . make an appointment with someone to . . . ask about a headstone. Do you do custom work?”

  “Custom work is our specialty. What were you thinking about?”

  “I recently saw a series of headstones that I found very interesting. They were ordered about ten or more years ago by my . . . uncle, Leif Berg. Did you do that work?”

  “Our company did. Those headstones have gotten quite a few inquiries over the years.”

  “I imagine they have. Is the stonemason—”

  “Everyone always asks that question as well. The man died shortly after he completed the work. Single-car accident. He died a few days later in the hospital.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Did he die of his injuries?”

  There was a moment of silence. “No one’s ever asked that question.” His voice grew distant. “Hey, Jim, what was it Ralph died of?”

  A distant voice called, “Some kind of infection. No, wait. Botulism.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “But if you’re interested—”

  She hung up and looked at Ryan.

  He gave a half shrug. “We looked at the tombstones. We looked at everything. There was just no way to pin down the location, and even if we had that, with his obsession with security, Leif would have coded everything and set booby traps for anyone foolish enough to try to get around his codes. It’s one of the reasons he was fired from the Deseret lab.”

  “I thought you said he retired.”

  “Let’s say he left under a cloud. One of his booby traps blew the hand off a coworker.”

  “I believe he used the headstones at the family cemetery. The man who did the work died in the hospital—”

  Ryan waved her words aside. “We know that! A car accident. That proves nothing.”

  “He died of botulism. The same way Reinhard Heydrich died.”

  Ryan fell silent for a few seconds. “Well I’ll be. That solves one mystery. I don’t suppose you’ve worked out exactly where in the cemetery, and how to get to it without triggering Leif’s trap?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “That’s unfortunate. As I mentioned before, if we get it wrong, boom!”

  CHAPTER 33

  Ryan sat across from Murphy at the table. “You’ve kept your part of the bargain. Write this address down.” He recited an address in Bells Flats. The house was less than a half mile from Vesper’s home. She’d been so close.

  “When you’re . . . done, come back here. I’ll have the money, airline ticket, and identification ready for you.”

  She nodded. “Okay, but the car, Elin’s car. Aren’t police going to be looking for it?” She held up the piece of paper she’d written the address on. “To get here, I have to drive right through the center of town. The cruise ship has already departed.”

  “If you wait until it gets dark, or at least darker, I can create a diversion.”

  “What kind of diversion?”

  He patted her hand. “One that keeps the police from looking your way. Let me worry about that. Did you want to get some rest? You still have a few more hours before it’s dark.”

  “I can’t sleep. I’m too wound up.”

  “You’ll have the house to yourself. If I’m going to get your money and tickets and cause some mischief, I need to get going.” He looked at his watch. “It’s 1130 hours. The sun will set at 1300 hours. Wait half an hour. 1330. Then go. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  He waved and left.

  The aspirin helped, moving the headache from a throbbing ache to a distant pulse, but her brain was fuzzy and vision off. She glanced around the spotless house. He probably had surveillance cameras here and was watching her.

  So what? He’d know she’d snoop.

  Starting with the kitchen, she ex
amined every cupboard, drawer, the refrigerator, stove, closet, and microwave. All she learned was he didn’t cook. Or eat here. The living room was equally barren of personal items, as was the bedroom. Not even clothes in the closet. She ended up in the living room feeling uneasy and restless.

  Feeling uneasy was normal. What did she expect? He was some kind of secret agent.

  She’d see Dallas soon. After so long, she’d be able to talk to her sister, laugh, share secrets. The hollow feeling would leave. Everything would be like it was before . . . before Clinton Hunter. She would save her sister by killing Clinton Hunter. Save her sister by killing Clinton Hunter. Save her sister by killing Clinton Hunter . . .

  She blinked. The words pounded in her head like a drumbeat. She’d been pacing the floor, chanting.

  “I’m not a killer,” she said out loud.

  You’re not killing. You’re saving. Rescuing, Dallas whispered over the thumping words.

  Don’t kill. Call the police, a tiny voice murmured.

  The police failed me, Dallas whispered back. The judicial system failed. All those women are dead. I need you to save me. Kill Clinton Hunter.

  “I will.” She had the mission. And it was time.

  She secured the house, fumbling with the lock. As she turned to the car, she stumbled. Maybe that blow to the head gave her a concussion. The cotton batting in her brain thickened slightly. She got in the car. The driver’s side crowded her, the computer open beside her . . .

  She scolded herself aloud. “Stop, Murphy. There isn’t an open computer. You’re in an SUV.” Her words were slurred slightly. Focus on the mission. She made sure Elin’s gun was loaded, then placed it in her lap. If the police stopped her . . .

  She’d passed Lily Lake when she heard the sirens. The closer she got to downtown, the louder and more numerous they became.

  Driving by W. Marine Way, she spotted the fire. Flames engulfed one of the boats in the marina. Police and fire trucks converged on downtown. “Good work, Ryan,” she whispered.

  Bells Flats was about ten miles from town. Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding along with the throbbing in her head. The headlights bounced off patches of dense fog covering the almost empty two-lane road. The rain, for now, had ceased. She saw the sign up ahead. S. Russian Creek Road. The sign dissolved into another sign. Parker Lane. She blinked and the sign changed back.

  She slammed on the brakes. Was that a trick of the fog? Was she overtired?

  When the sign didn’t shift again, she turned right. Now where? Holding up the slip of paper with trembling hands, she reread the address and directions. The closer she got, the more the landscape warped. Russian Creek Road was rural, small homes set far back on large lots . . . Now it was a low-income bedroom community. Parker Lane. Neglected older homes built closer together. Run-down. She pulled over and rubbed her eyes, then glanced around.

  She spotted the number next to the door of a house on her right. A rusted truck, windows shattered, sat up on blocks on an overgrown lawn.

  Tugging her coat closer in the cool fall air, she took out her flashlight and pistol. A dog barked in the distance, soon joined by a second. She watched where she put her feet, weaving between the discarded toys, trash, and hunks of grass.

  At the front door she peeked through the small sidelight.

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

  Murphy’s gut tightened at the stillness of the body.

  With her gun steady in front of her, she reached for the doorknob. Unlocked. She opened the door, swinging it wide to be sure no one was hidden behind it, and stepped inside.

  He stood across the room. Hunter.

  His mouth moved, but she could hear no sound.

  She raised the pistol.

  He put up his hand.

  She pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 34

  Murphy winced at the blast of the pistol. The smell of gunpowder clogged her nostrils. Still holding the Glock in front of her, she went to the body under the sheet. She reached for the corner and lifted it, then pulled it back.

  Her sister. Hair sprawled from her ruined face.

  No. Not her sister. Pillows.

  What?

  The room shimmered around her. Murphy found herself on the floor, not knowing how she got there.

  Clinton Hunter lay crumpled in the corner, a handcuff on one wrist holding him to a steam radiator.

  Handcuff?

  Murphy closed her eyes.

  Her sister’s lifeless body barely looked human.

  The floor rocked, the light dimmed, a shrieking hurt her ears. The screaming should stop. Someone stop the screaming. Murphy took a deep breath and the screeching ceased. It had come from her. She put her hand over her mouth. Muffled mewing replaced the screams.

  She opened her eyes. There was no body. Only pillows.

  Her mind was whirling, pieces of shattered mirrors twisting around. Her sister. Hunter. The house. The gun. Her badge. The blood.

  “Murphy?” a voice whispered from the corner. “Murphy.”

  She hadn’t killed him. She stood and tottered to his prone body. Blood seeped from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. His skin was waxy and pale. “Murphy,” he said again.

  Why wouldn’t Hunter stay dead? How many times must she shoot him? She raised the gun and took aim at a point between his eyes.

  “It’s me, Murphy. Look at me. It’s Joshua.”

  Hunter’s face metamorphosed. “Joshua?” No.

  “Murphy, focus. You’re remembering. It’s confusing. But I’m Joshua.”

  She looked down at her pants. They turned black. Uniform pants. She wore a standard-issue duty belt. The room shifted again. The walls were black with mold. The shag carpeting green.

  She turned, stumbled over the pillows, fell. The room spun. She crawled forward until she reached the wall. The black mold was gone, replaced by off-white paint. Pulling herself to her feet, she looked around the room. A broken mirror hung above a small table. She crept to the mirror, holding on to the wall for support. Her face was fragmented. She moved closer. Closer. Until only her eyes showed. Her pupils were small. She blinked and her mind began to clear.

  Finally, she remembered.

  She’d gotten the call on her radio.

  “Unit 23, please do a welfare check on 225 Parker Lane.”

  “10–26 in fifteen.” Murphy yawned and turned her patrol car toward the seedier section of Anchorage. She’d only been back from vacation for a few days and was trying to readjust to working the graveyard shift.

  She pulled up to a dilapidated house. A rusty truck rested on blocks on the overgrown, garbage-strewn front lawn. A pale-yellow light from the window bobbed and twisted with the moving foliage.

  Tugging her coat closer in the cool fall air, she took out her flashlight and pistol. A dog barked in the distance, soon joined by a second. She watched where she put her feet, weaving between the discarded toys, trash, and hunks of grass.

  At the front door, she peeked through the small sidelight.

  A coffee table lay on its side, one leg broken off. The stained brown 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.

  She tapped on the door. “Hello? Police. Please open the door.”

  The figure on the mattress didn’t stir.

  Murphy’s gut tightened at the stillness of the body. She turned off the flashlight, returned it to her duty belt, then triggered the mic attached to her shoulder. “This is Unit 23. I have a person down with an unknown status. Requ
esting backup at 225 Parker Lane. Please acknowledge.”

  “Ten-four. Backup to 225 Parker Lane.”

  She knocked again. “Police. Hello. Are you all right?”

  No movement.

  With her Glock steady in front of her, she reached for the doorknob. Unlocked. She opened the door, swinging it wide to be sure no one was hidden behind it. “Hello? Police.”

  She stepped into the room, glanced around, then approached the figure.

  Harsh breathing behind her.

  She twisted backward.

  Something gleaming flashed across her face.

  A million bees stung her forehead and cheek. She staggered, almost dropping her gun.

  A man with a knife lunged at her again, aiming toward her heart.

  She pulled the trigger. Again and again. Her brain finally registered she was dry firing. Sucking in a shaky breath, she released the magazine of her Glock. Empty. She reloaded another magazine.

  Her face was on fire. Hot blood streamed down the front of her uniform. Holding a hand over her wound, she advanced to her assailant. He was dead. She bent down and checked his pulse, but the dilated pupils in his wide-open eyes told the story. So did the ruined chest where she’d pumped seventeen rounds.

  She caught her breath. She knew him. Clinton Hunter. Her sister’s boyfriend.

  Slowly raising her gaze, she looked at the prone figure on the floor. “No,” she whispered. “Please, God, no.”

  Murphy’s legs were water, unable to support her. She dropped to her knees and crawled. A fly buzzed past her and landed on the body’s exposed ear. A delicate ear with a carved earring. She recognized the piece of jewelry. She’d bought it for Dallas when they’d vacationed on Kodiak Island.

  Gently she pulled the sheet away. Her sister’s open eyes stared upward, mouth open in a silent scream.

  Murphy’s head hit the floor.

  “Murphy, do you hear me? Murphy, help.”

  The voice was muffled, distant.

  “Murphy, please, you have to help me.”

  She opened her eyes. The room was sideways in front of her prone body. The carpet reeked of mold. In front of her were pillows on a stained mattress. Beyond that, Joshua was staring at her.