by Blake Pierce
“Do sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” Redlich said, feigning more hospitality than he had shown them yesterday.
Riley and Bill ignored his offer and stayed on their feet.
Riley headed right toward the fireplace mantel, where the small sand timer was still sitting. She looked it over carefully and soon located a tiny bubble in the glass.
She and Bill had been right to come back here.
She said, “You’re proud of your timers, aren’t you, Mr. Redlich?”
“I am.”
“And do you make them completely from scratch?”
Redlich squinted inquisitively.
“I’m not sure I understand quite what you’re asking,” he said.
“Well, you’re an excellent carpenter, after all. But what about the glass? Where do you get it?”
Redlich smiled again.
“Oh, it’s of very high quality. Not manufactured. Hand-blown, I assure you.”
Riley peered closely at the timer.
She said, “Yes, it does look like very fine work. Do you make it yourself?”
Redlich lowered his head in an expression of mock shyness.
“Oh, I mustn’t brag,” he said. “Modesty forbids.”
“You won’t tell us?” Riley said.
“No, I don’t think I will.”
The bullshit begins, Riley thought.
Once again, Redlich was determined not to give them any straightforward answers, just out of general spite.
But she wasn’t going to let that continue. Not this time.
She said, “If you did make it, I’m a bit surprised. I guess you’re still learning your craft.”
She pointed to the little bubble and added, “Because I couldn’t help but notice this flaw right here.”
Redlich’s smile vanished.
He said, “Bubbles are quite normal in hand-blown glass. Desirable, actually.”
“Are they? You don’t need to get defensive about it. Did you make it?”
Redlich looked dismayed now. Riley sensed that she had taken the fun out of his little mind game.
With a slight growl, he said, “I’d rather not say.”
Riley turned to Bill.
“He’d rather not say, Agent Jeffreys. What do you think of that?”
“I’d call it obstructing a criminal investigation,” Bill said.
“So would I,” Riley said. “Mr. Redlich, are you aware that obstruction of justice is a criminal offense?”
Redlich’s lip curled into that patronizing smile of his.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that. I’m afraid it would be your word against mine.”
She didn’t reply. She simply took out her cell phone and played a bit of the recording Jenn had made yesterday. Redlich’s voice came through loud and clear …
“Now where was I during the times in question? Well, I could tell you that I was here at home in bed. But would you believe me? I can’t prove it.”
Riley clicked the recording off.
Redlich’s face sank. Now he obviously knew that they had a full recording of the mind games he’d played with them yesterday. They had solid evidence that he’d interfered in their investigation and wasted their valuable time.
She said, “Now tell me, Mr. Redlich—where do you get the glass for your timers?”
Redlich let out a little chuckle of resignation.
“If you must know, I get all my glass from a craftsman named Kairos.”
“Kairos?” Bill asked. “Is that a Greek name?”
Redlich seemed to be starting to enjoy himself again.
“It’s his business name. I don’t know what his real name is. But it is a Greek word. And I think you’d find its meaning quite interesting. Perhaps even quite pertinent to the case you’re working on.”
Riley sensed that Redlich wasn’t playing games anymore. He was about to share a bit of genuinely useful information—and he was basking in his knowledge.
He said, “In Ancient Greek, there are two words for time. One is chronos—meaning chronological time. Kairos is the other word, and it’s a bit more difficult to define. But it refers to a single moment—an opportune moment, the ideal moment to carry out some sort of action.”
Riley felt a deep chill.
Kairos, she thought.
The word seemed very significant indeed. After all, they were looking for a killer who wasn’t obsessed merely with time, but with the exact moment when a sand timer emptied out and it came time to kill another victim.
“Tell us more about him,” Riley said.
Redlich shrugged.
“I wish I could. He’s quite well known throughout this area for his work, but he’s also very reclusive. I’ve never met him. I order my glass bulbs from him, with exact specifications, and they get delivered here. But as it happens, I do have some information you might find useful.”
Redlich went to a desk and opened a little drawer. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Riley. In large, decorative letters, it simply said …
Kairos—artisan
There was no phone number on the card, but there was an email address—and also a mailing address.
Riley looked at Redlich, not knowing quite what to say. She knew she ought to thank him, but part of her balked at the idea. He was, after all, a terribly unpleasant, mean-spirited human being.
Finally, through gritted teeth, she said, “Thank you for your help, Mr. Redlich. We’ll be going now.”
She and Bill went out of the house and got into the SUV. The first thing she did as they sat in the car was to locate the address. It was on a road near Jamestown, about a half-hour drive from where they were right now.
Bill asked, “Do you think this is our guy?”
Riley sat staring at the card.
“He calls himself Kairos—a Greek word for time—and he makes sand timer bulbs. What do you think?”
“I’ll bet he’s our guy.”
Riley could hear a note of certainty in Bill’s voice.
Bill added, “He could be dangerous. Should we call in a SWAT team?”
Riley thought for a moment, then said, “That would take time—and time is exactly what we don’t have right now.”
Bill chuckled a little.
“Then I guess it’s just you and me,” he said. “That suits me fine. The two of us are more than enough of a team. Let’s go get this guy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
It was starting to get dark by the time Riley and Bill arrived at the address of the craftsman who called himself Kairos.
The changing light gave Riley a chill.
She couldn’t ever remember dreading the arrival of nightfall. But the waning light was just another reminder of the passage of time—and every such reminder filled her with dread of what the coming hours would bring.
Bill drove them past an upscale neighborhood and then through a lightly wooded area. He pulled the SUV to a stop at a simple, ornamental metal gate.
Riley got out of the SUV and checked the gate. It was locked and there was no sign of a speaker box or buzzer. Not that they wanted to announce their arrival to the man who lived on this property anyhow. They wanted to take him by surprise.
Beyond the gate, a lane disappeared among the trees. She could see no sign of any building.
She looked back at Bill and shrugged.
He turned off the SUV, got out, and joined her. They easily hopped over the low fence beside the gate and walked along the dirt road.
After a short distance, a bend in the drive brought a house into view. It was surprisingly small for what seemed like such a large property. Its design was modern, which was a bit unusual in this region of colonial nostalgia. Just beyond the house was the James River, wide and glowing in the evening light.
There were plenty of lights on in the house. They quietly walked closer to the building.
Suddenly, security lights flooded the area. A dog inside the house started barking.
“S
o much for the element of surprise,” Bill said.
They both drew their guns and moved ahead. When they were about twenty feet from the house, a door swung open and they could see the barking German shepherd.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice called out over the dog’s barking.
“FBI,” Riley yelled, holding up her badge in the light. “Step into the light and put your hands where we can see them.”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then a man’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, his hands held straight up.
“OK, OK! Jesus!”
Then he said to the dog, “Quiet, Bozo. Sit.”
The dog immediately stopped barking and sat beside the man.
Bill called out, “Are you the man who calls himself Kairos?”
“Sure,” the man said with a nervous laugh. “But since you’ve got me at gunpoint, I’ll tell you my real name. It’s Alfred Kriley. Come on over here. Don’t worry, I’m not armed. Don’t worry about Bozo. He’s all bark. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. His noise keeps intruders away, though.”
The man looked big, but his hands were still up in the air, and he really did seem to be unarmed.
Their weapons still drawn, Riley and Bill took a few steps closer.
The man said, “Why don’t you come on inside and tell me what this is all about?”
Riley glanced at Bill. She could tell by his expression that he, too, was worried that this might be a trap. The man was still silhouetted against the indoor light. Riley wanted a better look before she went inside.
“Take a few steps back, sir.”
The man did, and the light shone on him more clearly.
He was a tall, bald, portly man in his mid-forties. His face looked amiable enough, despite the fact that he was obviously quite scared. Of course, Riley had every reason to expect the killer to look perfectly friendly.
Riley was about to ask him where he’d been at the times of the murders when she noticed something.
His feet were enormous, even for a big man. Riley could remember the sneaker tracks at two of the crime scenes. The killer’s feet weren’t nearly this big.
She looked at Bill and silently nodded toward the shoes.
Bill looked and then nodded, understanding.
Riley and Bill both holstered their weapons.
Riley said to the man, “Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir. We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
The man lowered his arms and shrugged.
“Sure, come on in,” he said.
As Riley and Bill went through the door, the dog got to his feet and bounced happily around them wagging his tail. Riley saw that they were in a well-equipped studio that stretched the whole length of the house.
“Are you here alone?” Bill asked.
“Yes, I am,” the man said. “Just about always.”
Riley looked around at the space. It was all one long room, and most of it seemed to be a workshop. It was filled with equipment for glassblowing—furnaces, steel tables, blow tubes, and torches fueled by tanks of oxygen and propane. Beyond that was some carpentry equipment. She could see living quarters at the far end, and she went to check that out. There was no sign of anyone being here besides the man and his dog, so she rejoined Bill and the occupant.
“Feds, huh?’ the man joked nervously. “Is this about the size of the workspace I claim on my tax returns? Because you can measure it if you like. I’m not cheating, honest. I’ve got a tape measure if you don’t.”
Bill said, “Are you aware of three very similar murders that have happened in this part of the state during the last few days?”
The man’s eyes widened.
“Murders? That’s terrible. Are you saying there’s a serial killer?”
Riley nodded.
“My god! No, I don’t get any news to speak of. I stay off the grid as much as I can. That’s why I bought this out-of-the-way place—years ago, back when it was still cheap. Of course it’s worth a hell of a lot now. Not that I’d ever sell it.”
With a pleasant laugh he added, “It’s perfect for a crusty old hermit like me.”
Bill asked, “So your name really is Alfred Kriley?”
“Yeah, but don’t let it get around. It’s good for business for an artist to stay mysterious. And I’m sure you’ll agree that the name Kairos sounds plenty mysterious.”
Riley said, “These particular murders seem to have been carried out by a gifted craftsman.”
The man’s face showed distress but she saw no sign of guilt.
Bill asked, “So you don’t know anything about the murders at all?”
“Not a blessed thing.”
Riley’s spirits sank. She didn’t believe that this man was lying to them.
Another wasted trip, she thought.
Then, as she glanced around the workshop again, a new feeling started to come over her—a tingling of intuition.
No, this wasn’t going to be a wasted trip, after all.
She didn’t yet know why, but she sensed that she was about to get an important clue.
She said, “Mr. Kriley, do you always work alone here?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kriley said with a laugh. “I’m too grouchy for anyone to put up with.”
Riley could tell that Kriley really was as good-natured as could be. He was just self-effacing, and he obviously treasured his privacy.
“And you don’t have any assistants?” Riley asked.
“No. I guess it might make my work easier, but I just don’t want anybody else around.”
Riley paused. She still had a strong sense there was something to be learned here.
Then she asked, “Did you ever have an assistant?”
Kriley’s forehead crinkled in thought.
“Now that you mention it, I did once. It was years ago now—some ten or fifteen years. A really odd young man, maybe about twenty years old at the time.”
Riley’s tingle of intuition grew stronger.
“Tell us about him,” she said.
The man sat down and thought for a moment.
“Well, like I said, he was an odd young man. Very peculiar. The first I heard from him was by a letter in the mail. He said he liked my name, Kairos, because he was fascinated by time, and of course I make sand timer bulbs. He said he wanted to be my assistant, wanted to learn my trade. Well, I got curious, so I invited him over.”
Kriley shrugged.
“I’ve got to say, I liked the kid. He was nice, and he seemed awfully earnest, and he really and truly wanted to learn. So I took him on. Taught him glassblowing—and carpentry too, because I do some of that as well.”
Riley breath was quickening.
“What was his name?” she asked.
Kriley scratched his head.
“Well, that was the strange thing about him. He always said his name was Bob. That’s all, just Bob.”
“No last name?” Bill asked.
“No, and I got the feeling Bob wasn’t his real name. Not that it mattered much, I paid him in cash. And I liked him enough not to care.”
Kriley paused again, then said, “Then one day he just didn’t show up. That wasn’t like him, he’d always been dependable. I never heard from him again. He was doing good work by that time, so I guess he figured he’d learned all from me that he wanted to. Still, I can’t say it didn’t hurt my feelings.”
Kriley shook his head.
“Odd kid. I wonder what happened to him.”
Riley was tingling all over now. This man was very lucky that his friendly apprentice had never returned. If her intuition was right, Alfred Kriley might have become a victim of the Sandman.
She definitely wanted to know what happened to “Bob” too.
“Could you describe him?” she asked.
“Well, he had thick brownish hair, green eyes, a pale complexion, a really winning smile. He was maybe five foot nine, muscular, quite strong. Of course, I’ve got no idea how much he might have cha
nged over the years. I guess he’d be in his mid-thirties by now.”
“Did he happen to say where he lived?” Riley asked.
Kriley knitted his eyebrows.
“As a matter of fact, he did. Not an exact address. But he did say that he lived in Abel’s Point, over across the York River.”
Riley was almost breathless now. She thought hard and fast. What other questions could she ask Kriley?
That’s all he knows, she realized.
There was no point in wasting any more time here.
She said, “Mr. Kriley, thanks so much for your help. And again, my partner and I are sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“No problem,” Kriley said with a chuckle. “It brought a little adventure into my otherwise boring life.” Then he added, “You think it might be Bob that you’re looking for?”
“We just have to check every possibility,” Riley told him.
She and Bill left the house and headed back the way they’d come.
As they walked, Bill said, “So you’re thinking that this ‘Bob’ kid is our murderer?”
“Aren’t you?” Riley said.
“I don’t know, Riley. It seems kind of thin to me. And even if it’s the same person, how are we going to find him? Kriley’s description isn’t much to go on, especially after all these years. And we don’t have time to go wandering around Abel’s Point questioning a lot of people.”
Riley didn’t say anything. But she remembered the task she’d assigned to Sam Flores—to search for past victims of childhood traumas involving sand throughout this area.
When they got into the car, Riley got Flores on the phone. She put the call on speakerphone so Bill could listen.
“Flores, how are you doing with that search?” she asked.
“I’ve turned up five incidents so far. I wanted to narrow them down before I got back in touch.”
Riley felt sure that the list was about to get narrowed down to one.
She asked, “Did any of those incidents take place in or around Abel’s Point?”
She heard Flores gasp slightly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I found a police report. It happened twenty-seven years ago. An eight-year-old kid was playing with some older friends on the beach. They were digging sand tunnels, about five or six feet deep and long enough to crawl through. The kid crawled into one of the tunnels and it collapsed on him. The other kids panicked and ran to get help.”