Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  The rental car ramp was opposite that of the parking garage. He positioned his car near the exit, waving other vehicles around him and closely examining each as it headed for the street. The light shining on windshields approaching from the parking garage made it difficult to see who was within. What will she be driving? Was the Dodge in Massachusetts her personal taste? Probably not. More likely an FBI choice, to be picked up from the garage later by another.

  He’d counted fifty-five when he saw her. Another Dodge, this one blue. The Mercedes slipped smoothly behind, through the airport grounds and out to Route 5. Didn’t that lead north to Alaska? To Canada anyway. But she turned south. Through SeaTac - was there really a town named that? - and on to Tacoma. Off to his left the immense cone of Mt. Rainier dominated the landscape. She kept a steady sixty-five. After an hour her right turn signal came on. He looked for signs. Olympia. Exit 54. He had kept several cars behind; He closed to one car intervening. After a mile the road split, then down a long hill and a right on Puget Street. His memory told him Olympia was at the foot of Puget Sound, the waters that separated the mainland from the Olympic Peninsula. Hudson dropped back a hundred yards. Easy, don’t mess it up. At Puget’s end she went right. When he reached the corner, he increased speed and crested the small hill just as she turned into Garrison Street. He slowed nearly to a stop. When he turned left on Garrison the blue Dodge had disappeared. Okay, she couldn’t have made it to the end. It must be one of the houses on it. Fortunately there was no one outside as he drove slowly down Garrison Street, peering in driveways and looking no doubt, to anyone who might have peered out a window, like a sex murderer on the prowl. It wasn’t all that long ago that a car driving slowly down a city’s residential street was assumed only to be looking for the address of friends.

  Two-thirds of the way down on the left he saw it. It was in the yard of a low, single-story gray ranch with carport and fenced-in yard. As he drove past, a light came on in the front room. He stopped at the end of the street and considered. What now? First he had to be sure Loni was inside. He parked on a different street, several blocks away, feeling a little uncomfortable. The neighborhood was one of modest single-family residences. A Mercedes was out of place. Fortunately, it was getting dark, and there were still few signs of activity. He studied the gray ranch from across the street; there were no windows on the front. After ten minutes, he crossed to two trees on the property that offered a view of the interior while shielding from anyone within. The woman had taken off her coat and was sitting talking to someone whose back was to the window. He had to get closer. Keeping the blue car between himself and the window, he crept up, his eye on the woman with her back to him. Just as he rounded the car she stood up and turned toward the window.

  “What are you doing there?” Hudson turned quickly toward the street. The voice came from a stocky man of thirty in mechanic’s overalls.

  “Eh?”

  “You don’t live there.”

  “No. I was trying to see the number of the house. I’m looking for some friends of mine.”

  “And that isn’t your car.”

  Damn! Just when he was about to verify if it was really Loni. “You sound like you live around here; just what I need. Eddie and Dot Marble, know them?”

  “There’s no one by that name on Garrison.”

  Of all the people I could run into it looks like I’ve got the city clerk. “They’re from back East, just moved out here someplace. Want to welcome them to the northwest.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re not from here yourself.”

  Now he’s a linguist. Hudson walked out the driveway to him. “Exactly. That’s why I’m looking so hard for the Marbles.” Good God, Hudson, you’ve lost your Marbles. Couldn’t have picked another name? “Homesick, I guess, for someone else from New England.”

  “Thought I caught a Yankee twang,” the man said with some pride. “You don’t want to prowl around buildings in this section of the country. We’ve had too many serial killers in Warshington. You’ve heard of Ted Bundy? We’ve had another one working here in Olympia. Lot a people got rifles. Don’t much know how to use them; get your head blown off before they hear your voice.”

  “Why would the voice help?”

  “We figure our killers are home-grown, not outatowners. What’s the address of your friends?” The suspicion had gone from the other’s voice.

  “That’s the problem. I know the number is 5025, and I know it’s in this general area, but I don’t know the street.”

  “Better try a couple streets over. They don’t live within two blocks of here.”

  “Many thanks. That’ll save me some time.” He strolled off, the mechanic watching him go. Hudson looked back as he reached the end of the street. His questioner had disappeared. He remembered the fence in the back of the gray ranch and walked down the street parallel to Garrison to the house that backed up to it. There were no lights, and he made himself walk as casually as possible down its driveway. Some small apple trees hid his climb over the fence. Once over it he sat quietly on his haunches listening and watching. The driveway was on the right of the house from his position behind it. The fence he’d climbed continued all along the left side. It was fully six feet high, permitting a prowler to stay hidden from neighbors. He walked quietly to a left side window. Kitchen. Empty. But here he could wait, with bushes obscuring view of him from the street.

  A half hour passed. He was thankful he wasn’t in snow country, but at that the temperature had dropped to a lower level than was comfortable in his city suit and topcoat. He was ready to risk the other side of the house - where he’d been seen once before - when the woman he’d been following entered the kitchen, putting on an apron. She turned to say something to the room she’d left, and Cilla appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter 20

  Cilla! Good Christ! How...? He raised his hand to bang on the window. Hold it. She was wearing lipstick, and, as he tried to see more closely through the dirt-speckled window, there appeared to be more color to her cheeks than nature had provided. Cilla didn’t use cosmetics. Wearing them made her feel like a prostitute. Stunned he backed to the fence staring at the window. He slid slowly to the ground, feeling as though someone had hit him in the stomach.

  Cilla moved out of sight for a minute. When she reappeared she was holding a cigarette. A cigarette. He scrambled to his feet and moved closer to the window. Cilla detested cigarettes, wouldn’t stay in the same room with one. Why hadn’t he noticed her hair was cut shorter...and there was something about her mouth...damn, if he got nearer, he’d be seen, and with the lipstick it was hard to tell where her lips stopped. But they looked thinner. When he’d first kissed Cilla her lips had been hard. He’d thought them thin then, but it was only tension, and they’d gradually softened to cushions he could sink in. And as they parted he could see the mouth wasn’t really the same at all. For the first time in minutes he took a full breath. This girl wasn’t Cilla. But it would take a relative to tell them apart. A sharp-eyed relative. This was Loni. He instantly understood Andre’s focus on Cilla. It would be difficult to find more of a twin.

  Identity confirmed. Now to get her alone. He had little hope the FBI woman would respond to his appearance by having him in for tea and a chat. He briefly considered a late night visit when they were both asleep, but discarded it. It will have to be tomorrow. And in the meantime? He’d like nothing better than a clean bed and a good night’s sleep in a local motel. Could he risk it? He’d just about convinced himself when the FBI woman exchanged the apron she’d just donned for her camel hair coat. Loni went out of the kitchen toward the bedrooms in back, returning with a belted wrap-around. He raced around the house and saw them getting into the blue Dodge. His car was too far away to follow.

  He spent a few nervous hours until they returned at eleven. By then he had the Mercedes down the block from the house, facing it. He didn’t dare take more chances, so spent a long night in the car.

  The front door opened
just after six AM, and Loni came out carrying the well-traveled urn. He ran his hands over the stubble on his cheeks to get circulation moving. She got into the blue car and backed out of the yard, heading in the opposite direction from his Mercedes. She was alone! Hudson followed. Should he attempt to stop her? Not a good idea, see where she went. She took roads back to Route 5 north. Again he stayed two cars behind, shortening the distance only when he saw her turn signal. The road she chose soon left commercial strips and climbed into the hills. Route 410. They were headed for Mt. Rainier, or beyond, and at first there were just traces of snow, but soon it lay deep on the sides of the road, which had narrowed to two lanes.

  Suddenly the Dodge slowed and pulled to the side of the road and she shut off the engine. Hudson stopped fifty yards behind and backed until a curve blocked view of his car. He parked and ran back up the road. Loni was out of her car and walking toward a small bridge. As Hudson approached, she stopped in the middle and opened the urn. She stood for a moment with her eyes closed, then scattered its contents into the stream that ran below. He pondered waiting behind a tree opposite her car until she came back to it. Then discarded the idea and walked up to the bridge where she was still standing, the urn upside down in her hand.

  “A relative?”

  Loni jumped and turned frightened eyes toward him. Hudson put both his hands on the bridge railing and gazed upstream. Looking at that oh-so-familiar but not quite right face made his heart pound. He held tight to the railing.

  “That was what my uncle wanted. His ashes spread on a pure mountain stream to drift down to the ocean and become part of life again.” He glanced at the girl. She was a faun in headlights, not knowing which way to run. He wanted to put his arms around her. Keep talking. “That was just last year. I wasn’t a very good nephew; never could make it up to the mountains. Hoped he’d settle for the Charles. At any rate, that’s where he went, and I suppose it doesn’t make a lot of difference now. Did you get the same instructions?”

  She’d decided on flight and went quickly around him, heading back to her car. He put an arm out to stop her.

  “Loni. My name is Hudson Rogers. I’m a friend of John Krestinski of the FBI. Listen to me a minute.”

  She twisted violently in an effort to get away, but he held her tightly.

  “My family hid your father from the people after him and we were all nearly killed because of it. I need to ask you some questions so I can get them before they get us. And you.”

  She froze, staring into his eyes but seeing something far different. He had the feeling she hadn’t really heard anything he’d said and would take flight at the first opportunity. He sighed. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. And why expect to be? Only luck had kept him from flunking all the other detective tests.

  “All right. Let’s go back to your car. I’ve got to find some other way to convince you.”

  He led her to the Dodge. She was like a somnambulist; he had her body by the arm, but her mind was locked in a hidden room. He opened the driver’s side door for her. She got in and sat with head bowed as he went round and eased himself into the passenger side, regretting his pillow in the Mercedes.

  “Loni, my car is just down the road. I’m going to talk for a while and then I’m going to get in my car and leave. If I were someone who planned to hurt you I could have done it on the bridge and thrown your body into the river. Or I could reach over and strangle you. There hasn’t been a car come by since we arrived. I could dump your body in the snow and be on my way. Or best of all, I could tickle you to death. The exercise would keep me warm as I did it.”

  With a strangled cry, the dam broke. Her whole face clutched and wrinkled, and her body racked with sobs. Hudson let her cry, stifling an urge to put an arm out to comfort her.

  “Oh God you scared me,” came out between sobs. She lifted her head. “You really won’t hurt me, will you?”

  “No, I really won’t. I just want to talk with you, and then I’ll go.”

  “Oh, don’t go!” She took his arm with both hands and put her face on his shoulder. “Come back to the house with me.”

  Her touch sent a shiver through him. “I said I’m a friend of John Krestinski’s and I am, but this visit out to see you is strictly on my own. I don’t think the FBI would welcome my interference with a witness under protection.”

  “I don’t think I like the FBI any more.”

  “Why? Isn’t that woman...?”

  “Her name’s Dora. I don’t know Mr. Krestinski. When I went to the FBI four months ago, they assigned Sammy Gardner to me. He’s real nice. And open-minded, he cares about people, not like most policemen. I took an apartment in the North End, and he stayed with me until last week.” She brushed a cheek with her knuckle. “Last Saturday he went out for groceries - I was told not to go out at all so he had to do all the shopping - and he never came back. Instead it was Dora. She told me Sammy had been taken off the case for fear they’d identified him. Her instructions were to hide me in a new location, and I was to go with her.”

  “Normal precautions; the FBI is good at that.”

  “So we came way out here, and she never talks, just sits there looking at me. Then when she left for the service yesterday they put a man in, not like Sammy, an oaf who kept wiping his palms on his pants as though he wanted to wipe them on me.”

  “But you liked Sammy.”

  “Yes! We were...we became close.” Her sniffles had stopped, and she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.

  “Closer than you and Andre?”

  “I’ve almost forgotten him.”

  “He hasn’t forgotten you.”

  “We lived together two years.”

  “Loni, I need to talk with you about your father. Maybe there’s something in his past that will help.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back. Dora gets real angry.”

  “You knew your father’s apartment had been bombed?”

  She bobbed her head blowing her nose.

  “He came up to where I live in New Hampshire, to Wallace Carver’s house - you know him?”

  She nodded. “When Daddy was going through bankruptcy.”

  “He’s my next door neighbor, and my wife and I became involved.” He turned to her. “She looks a lot like you. My wife. That may have been part of the problem. In any event she was nearly kidnapped.”

  “Oh, no! Because of me?”

  “Not your fault.”

  The girl brought hands to her head. “What’s happening? First Daddy, then your wife...”

  “She’s okay, but we’ve got to find the people that are doing this. Can you tell me anything about your father’s business acquaintances, particularly recently?”

  She raised her head. “I haven’t seen anybody since I went to the FBI. Before that Andre and I almost never saw Daddy. I tried to get us together, as a family you know.” She smiled tentatively. “That was a disaster. I bought us seats together at shows, coaxed Daddy to get Andre into his club, tried to buy each the same clothes I bought the other so they’d at least look alike. It didn’t help. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other; they just didn’t have anything in common.”

  “Have you ever been to that club?”

  “No. It’s just old people.”

  “Andre isn’t old.”

  “For him it’s a good place to meet people who’ll help with his environmental stuff.”

  “Do you know anyone your father was afraid of?”

  “Daddy was always afraid. After his bankruptcy he went to work with some men who really scared him.” She turned to look at Hudson. “You know he was in drugs?” Hudson nodded. “Those were the frightening people.”

  “Did you ever meet any of them?”

  “Once, there was a man I met when daddy and I were shopping. He was wearing a cowboy hat. We only talked for a few minutes and he left. He was in a hurry to go someplace.”

  “Shopping where?”

  “In Boston. He was just
coming out of a store on Washington Street. Daddy introduced me.”

  “Name?”

  “Mr. Cabral. Daddy called him a business associate. But after he left I thought Daddy would collapse. He was real pale and told me to forget I’d ever seen him. Now that was silly, wasn’t it? How could I forget him when I’d just been introduced?”

  “Did you hear a first name?”

  “Gregory, maybe?”

  “What store was he coming out of?”

  “Oh God, I wouldn’t remember that. Is it important?”

  “I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t. Could be Gregory?”

  “But it wasn’t. Wasn’t Gregory. It sounded more foreign.” She worked on it some more. Then gave a little sigh. “No, it won’t come. I’m sorry. You came all the way out here for that?”

  “I was following the urn wherever it took me. Were your instructions to empty it into...what’s the name of that river?”

  “White River. No, this was my idea. I don’t think daddy cared where he went after he died.”

  “Heaven or hell all the same?”

  “Oh, no! That sounds awful. I meant what happened to his body. You know, his ashes.”

  “He wanted to be cremated though?”

  She nodded. “I just thought a pretty river that runs down to the sea would be a nice place for daddy. You know, they say humans came from the sea originally. It isn’t dust to dust but water to water, and I felt...”

  She glanced at Hudson and saw he wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on something far away. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sokwai sibo.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got to make a call, and I don’t think my cell will work in these mountains”

  “Mr. Krestinski?” He nodded. “Come back to the house with me. You can call from there. And maybe you could ask him for somebody other than Dora.”

  “I don’t think...”

  She took his hand in both of hers. “Please?”

  They’re not her lips but they’re such lovely lips… “Well, I could ask him how Sammy is.”