Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  “No, I think she’s just part of the game and maybe one of the next victims.”

  “That’s occurred to me too,” Hansen said.

  Capriano sighed. “I’ll be in touch if I get anything.” And he was gone.

  Hansen drove on. He felt alone, painfully alone. Earlier that morning, he’d been tempted to ask Capriano to fly out and meet him in Farmington, to see this through with him. He respected his friend’s experience and intelligence, and he knew that together they could come up with a good plan. But Capriano had other cases. And he couldn’t justify medical leave the way Hansen was doing.

  Hansen didn’t have much of a plan. Find Ellie, save her if possible. Then what? Hand her over to the cowboy husband? That would be the decent thing. Clearly, she’d moved on. But that wasn’t what he wanted. Something substantial was there between them. He knew it, and he believed she knew it. He cursed his hesitation when she had come back from Paris, his need to run away to Montreal and what remained of his family. What had he been thinking?

  Another road sign. Farmington 25. Anxiety rose up in his throat.

  63

  Ellie found just the right gift at the jeweler’s next to First Cup Coffee House—a heavy sterling silver frame that could sit on Al’s desk or the mantle. She thought she’d take a few pictures of Al with Beemus and then frame one, a testament to the man and his love for his dog. She wondered if her cats would get along with Beemus, if maybe Sandy would drive them out and visit for a few days.

  She stopped at the front desk on her way to her room to check out. She paid the bill with some of the remaining traveler’s checks. She was conscious of the independence of the gesture for Al had been paying her bills. But it seemed important to do this, to close out her single life herself. Then she went to her room and packed her things. She didn’t pack carefully, she was only going a few miles.

  She left the hotel at five-fifteen with one stop to make—Sweet Basil Thai for yellow curry with chicken and shrimp pad thai, Al’s favorites. She had called ahead to order.

  64

  Hansen spotted the Residence Inn as he came into town from the southeast. It was just past five. He thought about stopping, but he knew he should check in with the local police before he did anything. It wasn’t just courtesy; it was a way to protect the case. His anxiety began to ratchet up and the weather didn’t help. In the last couple of hours, it had shifted. The clear blue sky with big white clouds was now dark and threatening, and bruised purple thunderheads were moving in from the mountains.

  The desk sergeant was a heavy-set young woman with a broad, brown face and amazing dark eyes. WINONA CROSSRIDER said the nameplate. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said when he told her his name and showed his badge. “You’re from Pittsburgh, right?”

  Hansen nodded. The finer geographic points of his jurisdiction seemed irrelevant.

  “You’ll be wanting to talk to Chief Madison. He’s gone to dinner. Said you should wait. I expect him in a half hour or so.”

  “Can you tell me where he is?”

  She frowned. “He doesn’t like to have his meal disturbed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He gets together with his wife.”

  “Is there anyone else I can talk to? I’m in a hurry here. Is there a detective on duty?”

  “William Two Horses is our detective. I can call him if you like.”

  “Please.” Hansen moved away from the desk. Against one wall was a row of orange plastic chairs, chairs placed there for anxious parents and less aggressive town drunks. He sat down in one, but was up again in thirty seconds. He went back to the desk. “Do you know Al Robison?”

  The woman nodded. “Not personally. But I know who he is.”

  “Can you give me his address or tell me how to find his ranch?”

  “Sure, I guess.” And she wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “I put in a call to William. He’s on his way back to the station to meet you.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Tell him that I’m going to the Residence Inn and then out to the Robison ranch. I’ll call if I need backup.” He glanced at her and saw that her eyes had widened in excitement. “Is there a direct line here?” he asked, taking out his phone. He programmed it in as she recited it. Then he thanked her again and headed out.

  “Wait,” she called after him. “I think you should wait for William.”

  He shook his head in response and headed out the door and down the block to his car.

  65

  Ellie made one additional stop on her way out of town. A block from the Thai place was a florist, and she bought a huge bouquet of flowers to fill the house with color. Then amid the competing smells of phlox and pad thai, she drove out to the ranch. The wind was picking up and a few raindrops spotted her windshield.

  She found herself keenly aware of this moment, of its endings and beginnings. The decisions she had made and the letters she had written that morning most likely signaled the end of her career as a professor, perhaps as an intellectual. She wasn’t sure what would become of that part of her.

  And she was beginning life as a married woman. She was committing her life into the care of another, for better or worse. She would need courage and bravery and determination. The image of a bonneted pioneer woman came to mind, and it made her laugh. The laughter sparked a sense of happy anticipation, and she was glad for it.

  She turned into the driveway to the ranch, the house ahead of her, lights on in the gloom of the approaching rain. As she drew near, she saw Al and Beemus in the yard, as if they had anticipated her arrival. She smiled. Then coming down the porch stairs toward her husband and the dog, she saw a young couple. The woman smiled and waved at her, and Ellie grinned with pleasure, not stopping to wonder how they’d found her.

  66

  There was no one at the front desk at the Residence Inn and no counter-top bell to ding. Hansen stepped behind the counter and opened a door on the right, startling a young man who stood leaning against a desk and eating a sandwich. Tuna fish permeated the air.

  The young man jumped up. “You can’t come in here, sir!”

  Hansen showed him his badge.

  “I’ll be right out.” The kid looked guilt-stricken. In less than a minute, he was in position, all smiles and professionalism. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I need to know what room Ellie Robison is in.”

  “She’s no longer here. She checked out this afternoon. About two hours ago.”

  A wave of relief swept over Hansen. It might not be too late.

  “What she’s driving?”

  “We’re not allowed to give out that kind of information, sir.”

  “Do I need to speak to the manager?”

  The kid frowned. “At dinner time, I’m the manager, sir.”

  “Do I need to call the chief of police to get your cooperation?”

  The kid blanched and typed into the computer. “Honda Civic, New Mexico plates, UXL683,” he said.

  Hansen didn’t thank him as he left.

  Back in his car, Hansen willed himself again to slow down. He took deep breaths, slowly exhaling and relaxing his body. He needed to proceed with caution, with clarity. He put the address for the Robison ranch in his GPS, and he checked his gun. As he was driving out of the hotel parking lot, his phone rang. Capriano again. Hansen pulled to the curb.

  “There’s another kid in the Gerstead family,” said Capriano.

  “Yeah, we know that. Roger has a twin, Michael. Lives in Ohio. And they all have the same DNA. And it doesn’t match.”

  “No, this is a third kid. The first Mrs. Gerstead, Maureen, already had a six-year-old when she married Arlen. No DNA relation to Arlen. The kid was apparently trouble, a lot of trouble, and when the twins were born, Arlen ‘encouraged’ her, that’s the word she used, to send the boy to live with his father in the sticks outside of Cincinnati. The boy was eight. She went on with her life, raised the twins with Arlen until he left her for Sandy. The last time she saw the boy,
he was fourteen. He’s now thirty-two.”

  “Funny that Ellie didn’t mention him.”

  “She probably didn’t know about him. Sandy Gerstead didn’t. Arlen had never said a word.”

  “What’s his name? Is he in the system?”

  “Stanhope. Arthur Leonard Stanhope. Goes by Lenny, I’d guess.”

  “Bingo,” thought Hansen. Michelle’s boyfriend.

  Capriano went on speaking. “He has a juvenile record but it’s sealed.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Hansen. “We know what’s in it.”

  “Yeah, tortured pets and an early sexual assault.”

  “The father still alive?”

  “No, died of a drug overdose a year ago, pentobarbital. No surprise there, huh?”

  “None. Any ties to Arlen?”

  “We’re looking into it,” said Capriano. “I think Arlen and Lenny knew each other all this time. Maybe Arlen was blackmailing Lenny for some of Joel’s money. That would explain how he could afford the sex clubs and the apartment.”

  “Makes sense. Got a DMV photo on Lenny?”

  “Sending it to your phone now. We’ve already had the Santa Fe people show it to the woman at the B&B. It’s him. Go to the locals, Doug. You’ve got what you need now. I’ll call ahead and fill them in. How far are you from the station?”

  “Hey, I’m almost to the ranch,” Hansen lied. “Just send them after me. I can’t wait.” He closed the phone and put the car in gear. The rain was now coming down in gallon buckets.

  67

  Hansen had to go slow. The rain had sucked all the light out of the sky even though it wasn’t even six o’clock. In places where the pavement was uneven, he felt the car hydroplaning. He was doubly handicapped by not knowing the road or where he was going. He had to rely on the GPS.

  So intent was he on the road ahead that he didn’t see the flashing lights until they were right behind him, filling the car with red and blue stripes. He pulled over.

  The officer didn’t come to his window. Instead he opened the passenger door and jack-knifed his long body into the seat beside Hansen. Brown skin, brown hair, brown eyes, brown uniform. Forty maybe, forty-five.

  “Detective Two Horses,” said Hansen.

  The man nodded. “You’re an impatient man, Detective Hansen.”

  “I believe the situation warrants considerable urgency.”

  “I believe it does. And caution.”

  Hansen nodded. “What can you tell me about the ranch?”

  The Farmington detective described the long driveway, the house, then the barn and bunkhouse considerably further on.

  Hansen described the scene they had found each time. The woman on the bed, the man in a chair. He told Two Horses how little they knew of how the killer made it happen, of how he subdued the man and the woman. In the first killing, Ellie had been drugged hours before the brutality and Joel had been an accomplice. But they had no way of knowing if Arlen Gerstead had known who the killer was or if he, too, had participated. And in the Houston murder, Danny Levinson wouldn’t have known his assailant. They could only guess if any of this information would be helpful to them in what lay ahead at the ranch.

  After listening to what Hansen had to say, Two Horses tried to call his chief but the cell service was too weak. “Guess it’s you and me,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Hansen. And they settled on a plan. Hansen would follow the Farmington detective to the ranch. They’d park a bit before the driveway and walk in to the house with Two Horses taking the lead. From there, they’d have to play it by ear.

  The rain was already letting up, the clouds scudding north. It wasn’t quite dark, but deep patches of ground fog made the driving treacherous. Hansen stayed as close to the other car as he could, trying to keep the taillights in view.

  In about ten minutes, Two Horses pulled off the road at a turnout and Hansen did the same. Two Horses took out a pair of rifles and a pair of flashlights and offered one of each to Hansen. Hansen took the flashlight, but he shook his head at the rifle and held up his revolver instead. Two Horses shrugged. Then he headed off down the road, the flashlight beam low and in front. Hansen followed suit.

  Slowly Hansen’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then the men turned off the road and into the gravel drive and his adrenalin really began to kick in.

  As they neared the house, he could see the buildings laid out as Two Horses had described. In the far distance to the left were a large barn and a long, low building. Through the fog, he could see that lights were on in the bunkhouse, and a few chords from a guitar came to him on the wind. With his eyes on the bunkhouse, Hansen tripped over a large bundle on the ground, near Ellie’s red Honda. On closer inspection, he saw that it was a dog. He bent down and touched it. Still warm, still breathing. Next to the Honda was an older Subaru Outback with Pennsylvania plates. They were here.

  He pulled himself up straight and looked for Two Horses. The man had moved toward the house, which was ahead and slightly to the right—two stories, a wraparound porch. A lamp burned downstairs, near the center of the porch. Hallway or front room, he figured. The rest of the downstairs was dark. Upstairs, one room was well lit. One of the windows in the room was open a bit, but he heard nothing, no conversation, no cries for help.

  Two Horses signaled to him to wait and he moved around the back of the house. In another minute he was back. “Three doors,” he whispered, gesturing front, back, and far side. Hansen nodded to show he had understood. He was loath to let the younger man run this, but he was twenty years older and still weakened from the shooting in Montreal. And he had the wisdom to set his ego aside to see this come out right.

  The young detective pulled him back a hundred yards or so into a dense patch of fog. “I didn’t see anyone downstairs so it looks like they’re on the second floor,” his voice just above a whisper. “I suggest we approach them together. You go in the front and cover the bottom of the stairs. I’ll go in the back, check out the back of the house, and meet you at the stairs.”

  “Won’t he hear us break in?”

  Two Horses looked at him. “Why would we break in? We don’t lock our doors here.” Then he looked down at Hansen’s shoes, knelt down and checked the soles, gave him a thumbs-up when he saw they were rubber. Then he evaporated into the night.

  Hansen unlocked the safety on his gun, then walked as quietly as he could to the porch and crept up the stairs. Sure enough, the front door opened easily and there ahead of him was a broad, bannistered staircase. The door to the living room was ajar and the glow of the lamp came out at him. He stepped back into the deepest shadows he could find and willed his breath to slow and be easy.

  Three, maybe four minutes passed. He thought he heard movement upstairs, but it was faint, muffled, and he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t just the blood pounding in his ears. He heard no voices. Two Horses materialized right next to him. He hadn’t heard the man enter the house or move through the rooms. One second Hansen was alone, the next second Two Horses was right there.

  The man tapped him on the shoulder, then beckoned in the dim light for him to follow up the stairs as he began to move in the same amazing silence. Like a cat, Hansen thought, conscious of his own heavy tread on the steps, the rustle of his pant legs against the bottom of his jacket.

  There was a surprisingly wide landing at the top of the stairs, Hansen saw, and a big window through which he could see the fading twilight. An open corridor ran across both sides of the stairwell, two doors on each side. All the doors were closed, although under one he could see light. Two Horses motioned him to stay as he moved silently to the two dark rooms on the right. He opened the first door, stepped gracefully inside, then in a few seconds stepped out again. At the second door, he did the same thing, only he paused inside the room a long moment, then motioned Hansen into the room.

  Two Horses had a low-beam flashlight pointed to the floor. In the dim light, Hansen could see Ellie and the girl on the bed. He took it all in a second.
Ellie lay face up, the girl on top of her. Both women were naked, their breasts touching, their genitals pressed together, their legs entangled and the four ankles bound together. Ellie’s mouth was taped shut and her wrists were tied to the bedpost. The girl’s arms appeared to be free, but her head was slumped on Ellie’s shoulder. She was clearly drugged.

  Ellie was not. Her eyes wide with panic, she looked at him with as much fear and grief as he had ever seen. He moved to her side, put his hand on her cheek in reassurance. “Wait,” he mouthed as she began to struggle against her bonds.

  At the same time, Two Horses had cut the tape that held the women’s ankles and was lifting the girl into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Hansen watched him go, then silently closed the door and began freeing Ellie from the gold cords that held her wrists. As soon as one hand was free, she pulled the tape off her mouth, wincing as she did so. He put his finger to her lips to silence her and she nodded and lay back and let him free the other hand. They clung to each other for a moment. Then he wrapped her in a blanket he found on a chair and led her down the stairs to the porch. He wished he were younger, stronger. That he could carry her down.

  In the foggy distance, he could see Two Horses in the yard, next to Ellie’s car. He gave Ellie a gentle push in that direction and headed back into the house and up the stairs.

  Hansen gripped the gun in both hands. His palms felt sweaty, the way they had when he was a rookie. He crept to the last door on the left, where he saw a glimmer of light underneath the door, and put his hand to the knob. He hesitated, but only to marshal his forces. He had stopped planning when he reached the top of the stairs.

  He turned the handle and slowly pushed the door ajar. It was another bedroom and dark, but ahead to the right was another room and light splayed out from it. Hansen tightened his grip on his gun and moved to the open door.

  “Come on in, Detective. The party’s getting started in here. I’m just about to dispatch Cowboy Al to his Maker. You don’t want to miss it.”