by Chris Mooney
'The tattoos used by members of the Aryan Brotherhood,' Darby said.
Evan nodded. 'The ethnic backgrounds of the Denver women suggested a tie to the Aryan Brotherhood. Naturally, Brotherhood members claimed they didn't know Mr Smith. The name isn't listed on any of our computers. We don't even know if John Smith is Traveler's real name.'
'The blood sample you found,' Darby said. 'Did you find a match in CODIS?'
'We did. It belonged to one of the missing Denver women,' Evan said. 'After Denver, Smith set up shop in Las Vegas. This was toward the end of ninety-three. Here he changed his selection process. Over the next eight months, twelve women and three men vanished. The Vegas police didn't pay much attention to the cases, since people disappear from Vegas all the time. People go there down on their luck to indulge whatever vices they have; everyone comes and goes.'
'What were the ethnic backgrounds of the victims?'
'The women were mostly white,' Evan said. 'The men were Jewish. One of the female victims, her car was left on the road. Someone messed with the ignition wires. Fortunately, a piece of evidence had been left behind – the Ryzer boot print.
'By the time I got involved, Mr Smith had already moved on to Atlanta, his third stop. This was in ninety-four, and we had given his case a name: Traveler. The boot print was listed on VICAP and we were called in.'
Evan shifted in his chair, springs squeaking. 'Carrie Weathers, Traveler's fourth victim in Atlanta, was spotted getting inside a black Porsche Carrera. The witness said the car had a busted fender and Maryland license plates, but she didn't get a good look at the numbers. It was the first real break we had, so we asked local gas stations and garages to be on the lookout for a black Porsche with a dented fender coming in for fill-ups, repairs, whatever.
'We were in the process of running down registrations when a call came in at night from a gas station attendant working at a local Mobil station. A Porsche matching our description had just come in. A blond woman was in the passenger's seat. She was sleeping. She had too much to drink, the driver had said. I asked the attendant to secure the pump. I went to the station along with someone from the lab.
'The gas station attendant was very relaxed, very cooperative,' Evan said. His voice sounded oddly detached, as though he were reading from a script. 'He said he wrote the license plate down on his pad next to his phone. I followed him through the garage. When I entered his office, he was standing behind me. He hit me on the back of the head. That was the last thing I remembered.
'When I woke up at the hospital, I was told he used the gas from the pumps to set the fire. At some point, I managed to crawl away, but I don't remember it because of the concussion. They identified the lab tech and the real owner of the gas station through dental records. They had both been shot with a Colt Commander.'
'The same weapon used to kill Carol Cranmore's boyfriend,' Darby said. She had the ballistics report in her folder. 'You didn't recognize the gas station attendant?'
'This man was heavier, clean-cut with a shaved head,' Evan said. 'He looked nothing like John Smith. He was wearing a jacket, so I didn't see any tattoos. And he didn't fit the profile. He didn't ask many questions about the investigation, which psychopaths generally do. Obviously, I was wrong.'
'Had he attacked a police officer before?' Darby asked.
'Not to my knowledge. But if John Smith is a member of the Aryan Brotherhood or some other white supremacist group, killing a police officer or any member of law enforcement means you move up through the ranks. It's a badge of honor.'
'Still, it's odd that he would target you – and set up a trap,' Darby said.
'It's what psychopaths do when they're cornered. Or maybe he was trying to send us a message – to let us know he was in control.'
Evan's face took on a stillness that Darby found unsettling. 'Traveler's a very smart, highly organized psychopath,' he said. 'He abducts women from different states and mixes up the methods of abduction so he won't attract any attention to himself. The victim selection is totally random so we can't find a pattern. He can hide underground for several months, which shows a remarkable amount of restraint. And as I've learned, his plans are well thought out.
'Everything Traveler does is about exerting control over his surroundings – that's why he sent the package to Carol's mother, why he placed the call to her. He wants us to know he has Carol and can kill her whenever he wants.'
'Which is why we need to use the listening devices to bait him,' Darby said.
'With what?'
'You,' Darby said. 'We use the Herald reporter, tell him you're here because Rachel Swanson woke up and told us some key piece of evidence and you want to take a look at the house. That way we can guarantee Traveler will be listening.'
'If he reads my name in the paper, he might panic and decide to kill Carol and the other women and move on. He's done it before.'
'Only this time he made a mistake at Carol's house,' Darby said. 'He left his blood behind – and one of his victims. Rachel Swanson could be the key to finding Traveler. He's going to want to stick around to see what we know about Rachel before he moves on.'
Banville checked his watch. 'I've got fifteen minutes left to call the reporter,' he said. 'I'm open to suggestions.'
'We could wait until the sepsis is under control,' Evan said, 'and then move Rachel Swanson to a controlled setting at a psychiatric facility, take off her restraints and have Darby talk to her again.'
'She may not want to talk again,' Darby said. 'You listened to the tape. She stopped talking to me. Have you found listening devices at any of the other victims' homes?'
'No, this is a first.'
Darby looked at Banville. 'I say we plant the story about the FBI wanting to go through the house to search for key evidence. Traveler will want to know what Agent Manning has found. If Traveler shows up, we'll corner him. We'll have all the streets blocked off so he can't escape.'
'And if he doesn't show up?' Evan asked.
'He'll kill Carol – he may have already killed her,' Darby said. 'We need to use the listening devices. They're our best shot.'
Evan was now looking at Banville. 'This is your investigation. It's your call.'
Banville rubbed a finger across his mouth. 'Two missing women and a missing teenage girl… I agree with Darby. I say we go for it.'
Chapter 37
All the florists in Beacon Hill were closed for the day. Darby was forced to pick through the anemic-looking flowers left inside the hospital gift shop. She took her time selecting the brightest colors she could find and made a nice arrangement.
ICU was quiet and calm now. Dr Hathcock was gone for the day. Darby checked in with a nurse. There was no change in Rachel Swanson's condition.
It took some wrangling to convince the nurse to allow the flowers in the room. Darby placed the flowers on the sill underneath the TV. That way, when Rachel woke up, she would see the flowers. Maybe they would help convince her that she was no longer trapped in the dark room where Carol Cranmore now was.
Bleary-eyed and weary, Darby stumbled into her mother's room. Sheila was asleep.
A peculiar sadness gripped her. On the way over here, Darby had hoped her mother would be awake. Darby needed to talk. The selfishness of a child needing her mother. Darby wondered if she would ever outgrow it.
Sheila's eyes fluttered open. 'Darby… I didn't hear you come in.'
'I just got here. Can I get you anything?'
'Some ice water would be nice.'
Downstairs, Darby filled a plastic tumbler with ice and water. She sat on the bed and held the cup while her mother sucked from a straw.
'Much better.' Sheila's eyes were clear and focused, but she was having trouble breathing. 'Did you eat? Tina made something resembling egg salad.'
'I grabbed a sandwich at the hospital.'
'What were you doing there?'
'Visiting Jane Doe,' Darby said. 'Her name is Rachel Swanson. She woke up today.'
'Tell
me about it.'
'Why don't you rest? You look tired.'
Sheila waved it off. 'I'm going to have the rest of my life to sleep.'
Darby wondered where her mother found the source of her bravery, what images she used to comfort herself for what was awaiting her.
She helped her mother sit up. When Sheila was comfortable, Darby told her about what had happened at the hospital.
'What about Carol Cranmore?' Sheila asked.
'We're still looking.' Darby realized she was holding her mother's hand. 'We have something, though. Something we might be able to use to help find the person who has her.'
'That's good news.'
'It is.'
'So why don't you look happy?'
'If we don't do it the right way, he'll probably kill her.'
'You can't control that.'
'I know, but I pushed for this plan we're going to use tomorrow. Now I'm wondering if I made a mistake.'
'What you want is for someone to assure you it's all going to work out.'
'I smell a lecture.'
'You were like that since the day you were born. You had to be in control of everything.'
'Who says I'm not?'
Sheila grinned. 'What you are is dedicated – and smart. Very smart. Don't ever forget that.'
'The person we're after is smarter. He's been doing this for a long time. The other thing is, he might have other women besides Carol. They might still be alive. And if we don't catch him tomorrow, he might kill them.'
Her mother's eyelids fluttered and then shut. 'Promise me one thing.'
'Yes, I'll save myself for marriage.'
'Besides that,' Sheila said. 'Promise me you won't blame yourself if something goes wrong. You can't blame yourself for things you can't control.'
'Sounds like good advice.' Darby kissed her mother on the forehead and stood up. 'I think I'll try some of that egg salad. You want anything?'
'I would love some gum. My mouth is so dry.'
When Darby came back, she was asleep. Darby checked her mother's pulse. It was still there.
She went to the spare bedroom and tried reading the case file, but all Darby could see was Carol Cranmore in the pictures – Carol walking through her dark prison cell, hands outstretched; Carol bumping into walls, trapped, terrified.
Darby shut the file and brought her Walkman with her to the recliner. She listened to the conversation with Rachel Swanson and stared out the window, at the trees shaking in the breeze under the dark sky. Carol Cranmore was somewhere out there, swallowing darkness and fear in equal measures.
Hang on, Carol. Find a way to fight and hang on.
Darby thought about the listening devices and felt a flicker of hope spark inside her. It was small, but it would do. She shut off the Walkman, wrapped the blanket around her and waited for sleep.
Chapter 38
Carol Cranmore lay curled on her side on the hard floor underneath the cot, the wool blanket wrapped around her for warmth. She had stopped shaking, but her rapid heartbeat wouldn't slow down.
The man with the mask hadn't hurt her. He had pulled her up by her hair and told her to stop fighting and shut up or he wouldn't let her talk to her mother.
He stepped up behind her and pressed something sharp against her throat. It was a knife, he said. He told her what to say and then had her repeat it back to him. She did. Then he told her to repeat the words again, this time into a tape recorder.
Carol was still speaking when the tape clicked off. He removed the knife and told her to lie down on the floor, on her stomach. She did. He told her to close her eyes. She did. The door slid open and slammed shut, the loud sound vibrating through her chest. Locks clicked back and then she was alone again, trapped in the awful darkness.
At some point, she dozed off. Her head felt foggy, and her blanket was wet with drool.
She thought about the sandwich she had eaten earlier. The sandwich had left a funny taste in her mouth. Was it drugged? Why would the man with the mask want to drug her and make her sleep?
And why did he take those pictures? Was he planning on sending them to her mother along with the tape and ask for a reward? It didn't make sense. In the movies and on TV, they kidnapped rich people. One look at her neighborhood and you could tell nobody rich was living there. So why did he take those pictures?
Carol didn't know, but she was sure of one thing: the man with the mask was going to come for her again, and the next time he might hurt her. He might kill her. How was she going to defend herself?
Was there something in the room she could use?
Moving her fingers along the cot's edge, Carol felt the rough polyester fabric wrapped around the aluminum tubing. Was there a way to get a piece of that tubing out? She gave the cot a good shake, but it wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't it move?
Her fingers found the brackets and screws pinning the cot's legs to the floor. The cot was bolted to the floor.
Carol spent the next half hour struggling to break off a piece of metal tubing. No luck.
Her heart was pumping hard from the exertion and brought on new waves of fear, making her skin tingle. She pushed her fear aside. She had to keep her mind clear. She had to think. Okay, what else is in here?
Carol mentally pictured the room: shower, sink, toilet and cot. What she needed was something sharp, something she could use to stab him -
The toilet. She had helped one of her mother's boyfriends change some plastic thing inside the toilet tank, and she recalled the things inside there – the handle and the lever. They were both made of metal. Attached to the handle was a long piece of metal with a pointed end. She could use it to puncture skin. She could stab him with it, but it wouldn't do any serious damage.
She could use it on his eyes. Let him try to find her without his eyesight.
Carol navigated her way to the corner. Her shin bumped up against the edge of the toilet. She reached down and felt the toilet seat. She moved her fingers toward the tank. There was no toilet tank, just cold metal pipes dripping with moisture.
Panic set in. The voice inside her head, the one that sounded a lot like her mother's voice, urged her to push these thoughts aside, to calm down and think.
Carol didn't want to think. She stumbled through the dark until she found the steel door.
'Tony, can you hear me?' She banged her fists against the door. 'Tony! Where are you? ANSWER ME.'
A piercing sound, like the ringing of a school bell, made her jump.
The door was opening, clank-clank-clank.
Carol ran back to the cot and scrambled underneath it, grabbing the blanket and twisting it into a rope, hoping she could use it to defend herself if he came at her with something sharp.
The man with the mask didn't come inside.
Carol stared into the hallway of dim light. Lying on the floor, about ten or so feet away from her cell door, was a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Was he hiding around the corner?
Carol didn't see a shadow on the floor. Maybe he was standing far away from the door, waiting for her to come out. Was he waiting for her to come out there and grab the food? If she stepped out there, would the man with the mask attack her?
'Hello?'
Not Tony's voice – this was a woman's voice, faint but clear.
'Can anyone hear me?' the woman asked.
'I can hear you,' Carol said. She wiped the tears from her eyes and watched the door, listening, getting ready to fight. 'My name is Carol. Carol Cranmore. Where are you? Who are you?'
'My name is Marci Wade. I'm standing inside my room.'
'Don't come out here,' another woman yelled.
How many people were down here with her?
The ringing alarm sounded again. Her door was closing.
And then the screaming started.
Chapter 39
Darby's morning started at the Belham police station. It was six a.m. She stood with Coop in the back of the crowded conference room.
Copies of today's Herald were visible everywhere she looked.
Carol Cranmore was the lead story: 'Where Is She? Police on the Trail of a Possible Crazed Killer.'
Darby had already read the article. There wasn't much meat in it, just speculation wedged in between lots of pictures. A photographer had captured a picture of Dianne Cranmore collapsed on the bottom of her porch stairs, hands in her hair as she wailed.
The last paragraph contained the bait:
A source close to the investigation revealed that police have discovered a key piece of evidence that could potentially break the case wide open. Crime scene technicians, assisted by federal lab consultants and Special Agent Evan Manning, from the FBI's Investigative Support Unit, will be going through the house today.
Now all Traveler had to do was to show up.
Banville took the podium. His hangdog face looked especially tired. Behind him, mounted on the wall, was a blown-up map of the streets surrounding Carol's house. Every possible escape route was marked offwith red pushpins.
After the noise died down, he started to speak.
'FBI technicians on loan from the Boston office entered the Cranmore house last night and determined that the listening devices are active and transmitting on the same frequency. They're remote-operated, meaning they can be turned on and off in order to save battery power. The maximum range these devices can transmit is roughly a half-mile radius. At the moment, these devices are off.
'We'll have officers stationed in unmarked cars at key points within a half-mile radius of the house. Other detectives and patrolmen, pretending to be volunteers, will be covering the area with leaflets containing Carol Cranmore's picture and taking down license plate numbers.
'We can't assume he's sitting inside the back of a van,' Banville said. 'He's not using sophisticated surveillance equipment. It could easily be stored underneath a car seat. I was told that the receiver could be a device disguised in something as simple as a radio Walkman. It's even possible he can plug this device into his car stereo system and listen over the speakers. We all need to be on the lookout for a white male wearing headphones or sitting alone inside a car. If you see someone, call it in – and remember to use the frequency I've given you. Stay off your cell phones.