***
Trading on instinct and a lifetime of wilderness experience, Sam shoveled water toward Ted Wolfe’s cabin and the radio as if the killer nipped at his heels.
Otter Stream’s depth hid the bottom in most places. With no rapids, it flowed gently but inexorably south but he paddled north. Each stroke had to count, had to propel him with force enough to compensate for the backward ebb each time he lifted the paddle.
He shook off the vision of Annie’s anguished face, the stark fear in her eyes. He had to haul ass to reach help. He couldn’t let himself think about the damn Hunter’s next step. He might be stalking Annie at this very minute. Or he might be following them in a canoe.
Don’t think. You get in trouble when you think too much. Just act.
He worked into a rhythm, not stopping for snacks, only for a gulp of water from time to time. Each time, he glanced back to check for the others.
So far, no sign of anyone. Only the twitters of songbirds and the plash of his paddle for conversation. Only a pair of loons and a muskrat in the muddy bank for company.
And the storm clouds. Still distant, they drifted closer, adding another threat.
Earlier, the group had listened without interruption as Annie, and then Sam, described the discovery of the Hunter’s grave and their conclusion that Ray was the killer. They accepted the dire news with more equanimity than he’d expected.
Nora hooked an arm around her son, and for the first time Frank didn’t rebuff her public affection. Sam hated seeing him afraid, but they had to know. His cynical brain absorbing everything, Carl asked the most questions. When did they first suspect? Why didn’t Sam do something sooner? Was it Ray? Were all those little disasters his doing to frighten them? To slow them down? Her shoulders rigid with the load of blame, Annie answered every one as fully and as honestly as she could.
Once they understood there was no way to contact anyone, that they were on their own, Frank and Nora agreed to Sam’s plan. Carl grumbled about a refund, but accepted the plan.
After they cleaned up and dismantled the tents, Sam demonstrated techniques for paddling against a current. Not that different from paddling rapids, he told them. But it meant a long, slow trip with lots of rest breaks. Sam had left the four of them in one canoe and struck out ahead on his own.
The trip took him three hours. The upstream struggle added an extra hour of sweat and stomach knots. When he glided in to the dock just after noon, the dog Captain barked a deafening barrage. The fine hairs on Sam’s nape stood at attention.
The Boston Whaler was gone. Wolfe always took his mascot with him. The yellow Lab rode point in the outboard’s bow.
“No one here. Damn!” He climbed out and snubbed the canoe painter on a cleat.
Captain kept up his frenzied baying.
Ray’s duffel and sleeping bag no longer rested by the door. No surprise. But the bunged-up canoe lay on the riverbank like a beached whale and the piles of discarded equipment took up a side of the porch. Wolfe had planned to ferry that gear to the take-out point. Who had taken the outboard?
“Poor Captain,” he called to the frantic animal. “Left you behind, boy?”
Everything was quiet, deserted, except for the canine. With his Red Sox cap, Sam scooped water to douse the tingles of apprehension that skittered across his sweaty scalp. His belly ached like he’d done two hundred crunches.
The door would be open. Wolfe never locked up. Always said visitors were welcome anytime. Someone might need shelter whether he was home to greet them or not.
Captain clawed at the chain-link fence that framed his pen. As Sam approached, the animal’s intensity subsided, but he whined and yipped.
“It’s okay, Captain. Good dog.”
When he mounted the stairs, the canine sent skyward a mournful howl. Then he lay down, his only utterance a pitiful whining.
Grateful for the silence, he listened for any sound from inside or in the yard. Any human sound that would locate the dog’s master. Nothing. Mental fingers crossed, he reached for the door latch. To his relief, it opened with a touch. The door swung inward.
“Ted?” he called, just in case. When no reply came, he stepped inside.
The cloying metallic stench hit him before the impact of what he saw.
In front of the two-way radio, Ted Wolfe sprawled in a wide stain of dark blood.
White noise roared in Sam’s ears, and heat suffused his face.
No.
His brain didn’t want to accept what he saw. He tried to call out. The words stuck in his throat, jammed there by a spasm of nausea. His heart pounded hard enough to blot out the dog’s renewed howls.
His feet wouldn’t move except with concentrated will. One step. Two. A tangle of radio wires draped the body. The blade of an axe was buried in the guts of the radio. Sam forced himself to peer more closely at his friend.
Oh, God, Ted. No!
He ran from the cabin and down the steps. He lost the meager contents of his stomach in the shrubbery.
***
Augusta
Justin replaced the telephone receiver. A visitor. He needed this interruption as much as another mutilated victim. He’d spent the morning tracking down the van. A Colby grad student with a photographic memory had noticed the white van. His memory was good for what he saw. He didn’t get all the digits on the license plate. The process of checking out all possibilities, even with other detectives’ help, moved slower than the Maine court system.
He stood, catching Rissa’s eye as she wove her way through reception to the conference room command post. As usual, the reception area was crammed with cops, visitors, witnesses, and suspects, mingling odors of ripe bodies, pungent cologne, and anxiety.
She acknowledged him with a cool nod.
Not his type, but an attractive woman, in an exotic way. No shapeless sundress this time, she wore a slim pants outfit in an eye-catching dark red. Her willowy form and haunted eyes lent her an air of feminine fragility and vulnerability. Two detectives turned from their coffee break to observe her with male appreciation.
Expression unreadable, she seemed unaware of them.
Little did they know that cool veneer hid focus of a border collie and the ferocity of a mother grizzly.
“What brings you to MCU headquarters?” He pulled the extra chair over for her. “Day off?”
She smiled, the first one he could recall seeing. It softened her mouth but not her eyes. “Yes, my day off. But not yours. I hear you’ve been a busy boy.”
Ah, the campus gossip network. He should have known Mama Bear would show up to needle him. To encourage him, she would call it. “The van may be a good lead. I’m working on it.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her much.
“Caitlin said you talked to Sajid. He knew the license number?” Her gaze browsed the computer screen and the files.
As big a pain in the ass as she was, he felt sorry for her, desperate for results. Hell, he was desperate himself. “Remarkable kid. He knew most of the license number. Apparently the van’s owner was clever enough to smear mud on his plate.”
She slumped, gripped her hands together in her lap. “So you don’t know who it is?”
“Without the complete number, we have to do a DMV computer search of all the possibilities and then get on the horn. Takes time.”
He leaned forward, placed one hand on hers. She felt cool but about as relaxed as a bomb-squad cop’s. She was a bundle of sparking nerve endings. “Rissa, we want to stop this slimeball as much as you want us to. I haven’t lost a daughter, but it’s personal for me too.”
“I know you care. Believe me.” Her gaze wavered. “It’s... I have to know. I can’t just sit around and wait.”
He tugged loose the knot of his Daffy Duck tie, scraped knuckles across his jaw. “By coming here, you have me doing just that.”
Her spine stiffened and her dark eyes spit sparks at him. Normally he liked intensity in a woman. But her inner fire seemed a volcano about to erupt
and annihilate anyone and anything in proximity. Too extreme for his taste. “Exactly what do you mean?”
He shrugged. “We’re sitting here jawing when I could be tracing some of these DMV licenses the computer spit out. You’ve gotten what you came for. You know where I am in this mess.” He gestured at the printouts in front of him. She didn’t need to know that most of the pile was Peters’ report on businesses.
She shot to her feet, quivering with indignation. “Far be it from me to waste your time, Detective Wylde.” She stalked to the door, her heels typewriting epithets across the hard floor.
“Rissa.” His voice halted her, but she didn’t turn around. “I’ll call once I know something. Trust me.”
She gave a cynical huff. “I’ll be back.”
When she’d left, Justin leaned back in his swivel chair, gazed out at the scenic view of the parking lot. Now that they seemed to inch closer to the killer, Rissa dogged Justin’s steps even more than before. When did the woman work? If she wasn’t careful, she’d jeopardize her nursing-home job.
He understood her obsession, sympathized, but she might be diving off a cliff. She probably wouldn’t listen to a suggestion of counseling.
TWENTY-ONE
Northern Maine woods
While Sam waited, he sat on the top porch step beside Captain. From time to time, the Lab went to the front door and whined. Then he lay back down and skewered Sam with questioning brown eyes. All Sam could do was pet the mourning animal and utter nonsense sounds of comfort.
It was mid-afternoon by the time he saw the red canoe approach the dock. How could he tell them what he’d seen? Finding the words would be as hard as those first days after he learned his injury was permanent. He trudged and Captain bounded toward them.
Annie was the first to climb out. Beneath her pink cap, concern pleated her forehead. Sweat stained her tee, and she dragged toward him, the strain of the upstream slog in every step.
“Princess, I’m beginning to appreciate your beef with Mother Nature.” He hurried to help pull the canoe onto the narrow strip of shingle.
When her gaze landed on him, obvious relief passed over her expressive features. Then a wide smile lit her gray eyes. “Sam, oh, Sam, you’re all right. And Ted?”
“Hey, Sam, that was an epic cool reverse water slide!” Frank hopped from his canoe and dashed past Annie as if just beginning the long trek. He bent to hug the eager Labrador. Captain returned the affection with enthusiastic, sloppy licks.
“So you made it without me. See any bears?” His concern was real, but not because of bears.
“No bears. But more bald eagles.” The sixteen-year-old dug an apple from their one remaining cooler and bit off a chunk. “Hey, did you make a call on the radio yet? Where’s Mr. Wolfe? I’ll go see him.”
Sam snaked out an arm and latched onto Frank. “Don’t go in there.”
***
Augusta
“How’d it go?” asked Bess Peters when Justin and Tavani returned to the command post. She hooked a printout from the fax machine and ambled to the table. “What’d you get?”
“Dick.” Justin collapsed into his swivel chair. He’d spent half the day interviewing the owner of the mysterious van. “The guy’s not pure but he’s not the fucking Hunter.”
“Then what was he doing parking at all hours on the Colby campus? You said he lives in Belgrade Lakes, nowhere near Waterville. He some kind of pervert?”
“Believe me, I wanted to nail him for something. This was one sketchy character.”
“I’d sure as hell never buy a used car or a Rolex from Vince Biggs.” The FBI agent took a chair at the long conference table.
Justin rubbed his nape. “Turns out he was stalking a former girlfriend.”
“I thought you said this Biggs was thirty-two or something. He had a college student girlfriend?”
“Yeah. The previous summer, sophomore Lindsey Van Damme worked at a restaurant in Belgrade. The two of them were pretty hot and heavy, but young Lindsey dumped our dirtbag when she returned to school.”
“I take it Biggs didn’t handle that well.”
“You got it. Most I accomplished was to warn him to stay away from Colby—and Lindsey. I talked to her, phoned her at home in Springfield. She said at first, she was flattered, older guy and all. After a while Biggs gave her the creeps. She wanted to dump him sooner, but was too afraid until time came to leave town.” He yawned. He had to get some damn sleep. “So I’m back to square one. No leads.”
Peters smiled. “Not quite. My investigation into the companies with traveling salesmen and consultants has turned up a possibility.”
That had Justin straightening in his chair. He pulled over the other chair, patted the metal seat. “Spill.”
“One of the companies, W & V Technologies in Portland, has filed a missing-persons report on an employee who hasn’t shown up for work since Friday a week ago. Nobody’s seen him or heard from him. Nobody’s at his house.”
Justin reached for the fax. Experience said go slow, but instinct spurted adrenaline through his system. “What’s this Holden Smith do?”
She glanced down at her notes from the phone call. “W & V provides computer sales, tech support, and consultation for their business customers in northern New England. Smith’s one of their techs assigned to Maine and northeastern New Hampshire.”
“So they send geeks like him to do upgrades and repairs.”
“Get this.” Peters gave him a Cheshire cat smile. “He’s worked here for three and a half years. Hired on recommendations from a similar company in Virginia.”
“Virginia!” Tavani said, his solemn features animated for once. “The Appalachian Trail murders. Does the suspect have a southern accent?”
“That I don’t know,” she said, scanning her notes. “For two of the recent murders, his trip log matches—Emma Cantrell and Lacey De Palma. They’re checking the rest now.”
The first murder was three years ago. The insight pumped Justin’s heart like jet fuel. His cop’s sixth sense kicked in. This was it. “Hot damn!”
Tavani leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “A computer geek. A loner. Sounds good.”
“That’s what I thought,” Peters agreed. “The manager mentioned their employees have no set schedules or clients. They send whoever’s available, and that person might stay several days, even have a day off before returning to the office.” She paused, her eyes sparkling.
Justin wanted to throttle the woman. She liked dramatics too much. “Peters, all of it. I want all of it.”
“The manager mentioned that Smith was an odd duck,” she said. “He belongs to the Fore River Gun Club. Practices regularly on the rifle range. Has trouble relating to his co-workers. Plays practical jokes. The manager said he had to reprimand Smith after the last one.”
“Which was?”
“One of the other techs had a fancy letter opener that went missing. Two days later it showed up stuck into a stuffed animal on a secretary’s desk.”
Justin emitted a long, low whistle. So the suspect was missing. That would explain why he’d stopped phoning Annie’s number. “This guy looks damned good. You got a description?”
She nodded. “Age thirty-nine. Five ten. Portland is faxing us his picture. One of the workers went to Smith’s house, but couldn’t get in. Portland cops got authorization to enter yesterday. Landlord gave them a key.”
“Yesterday?” Justin frowned. “Why the hell didn’t we know about it right away?”
“They called, left a message with the lieutenant. He passed it on to me this morning. You’d already left.”
“I suppose they’ve already done their walk-through.” At that moment, if Justin could have gotten his hands on Vince Biggs, he would have strangled the man for wasting the detectives’ time. “I suppose it’s too damned much to hope they found evidence of a crime, enough for probable cause and a search warrant.”
“Not exactly, but they did find some
thing. I had them put a man on the door. Keep it secure, you know.”
“Bess.” He ground his teeth with the sibilance.
She slipped something from her waist pack, then waved a search warrant at him.
“I could kiss you, but you’d probably bite me.” He grinned. “Explain.”
“I talked to an Officer Perryman, one of the uniforms who did the walk-through. Most of the apartment’s clean, but he had a hinky feeling in one room.”
Tavani scooted his chair closer. “If Wylde doesn’t choke you for dragging this out, I will.”
“Okay, you’ll see for yourselves anyway. Smith has a display case filled with rifles, shotguns, and a few handguns.”
“An illegal weapon or two?”
“Not illegal, merely rare around here. A .223 Ruger mini 16.”
Justin gave a low whistle. A Ruger mini 16 was the type of powerful hunting rifle used in the first murder. A limited edition weapon, the Ruger left distinctive marks on bullets. After leaving bullet casings from a rifle like this one at the scene of the first murder in New Hampshire, the killer smartened up and left no trace. “That was enough for the judge?”
“That and some fast talking.” Peters started to tuck the warrant back in her pack.
Justin slipped it from her hand and into his pocket. “Time to rock ‘n roll. I want a good look in this asshole’s house.” Straightening his Taz tie, he headed for the door, the FBI agent on his heels. “You coming, Detective?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for a speedboat ride on Sebago Lake.” She was already on her feet. “One question, though.”
Justin turned in the doorway. “What’s that?”
“If Smith’s not at work or home, where the hell is he?”
***
Northern Maine woods
His chest tight, Sam related what he’d found here. No play by play or color commentary, his halting words hit only the essential facts. Finding the body. The smashed radio and guns. The destruction. He left out the blood.
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