“Do you still have copies of those sketches?” Frost asked.
Josephine nodded. “Yes, I kept them in an album.”
“I really need to take that album with me,” he said.
A wistfulness came over Josephine’s face. “I know. I already went and retrieved it from the attic. It’s in the other room. I’ll get it for you. I was going to call you today to tell you about it. I couldn’t live with the secret. Back then, you have to believe me, I had no idea that those sketches had any importance. It never occurred to me. If I’d realized what Rudy was doing, I would have told someone.”
Frost wondered if that was true, but it didn’t matter.
What mattered was seeing the faces, names, and birthdates in those sketches.
Josephine left the room. He waited near the fireplace with Hope. He could feel her watching him. The portrait had an odd way of making her come to life. Her madness hadn’t left; it had somehow found its way from those sketches into Rudy Cutter’s mind.
Hope’s mother returned, carrying a small photo album with both hands. She handed it to Frost, who treated it delicately. The album had a musty smell, and dust was on the spine. When he opened it carefully, he saw that the album had nothing but black paper pages with rough, unfinished edges. No hooks, no plastic. On every page, Josephine had carefully taped one of Hope’s sketches. They were all the same, but they were all different. The paper and tape had become brittle; the ink was fading.
Frost turned one page after another. He saw the faces and names. Mothers and children. Many were strangers, but he also saw those he recognized. Daughters who had become victims.
Camille and Melanie.
Gilda and Nina.
Kelly and Hazel.
Weng and Shu.
This album, gathering dust in an attic, could have changed everything. Cutter would still be in prison. Some of the victims might still be alive. Katie might be alive. And Jess.
He turned another page, and he saw two names under the next sketch.
Sonja and Maria.
Maybe there were others—Maria was a common name—but he knew he’d found Maria Lopes, simply by looking at the mother’s face. The woman he’d met earlier that day in the hills of San Bruno looked just like her mother. He called up on his phone the DMV records he’d pulled for the various women named Maria Lopes in the Bay Area, and when he checked the birthday for Maria Lopes in San Bruno, he saw that it matched the birthdate written on the faded sketch.
She was the woman he was looking for.
He thought about Maria’s house, near the hills and trails of Sweeney Ridge.
He remembered the phone call from Rudy Cutter and the fierce, intermittent noise of the wind blowing in the background.
Frost knew where Cutter was. He grabbed his phone to send the police to hunt him down.
41
The late afternoon became dusk.
Fog massed like an army on the ridge, and the temperature fell. Lights began to come on in the houses that dotted the valley. Rudy waited, motionless and half-frozen, in the nest on the hillside where he’d spied on Maria Lopes for hours.
He didn’t feel alone. Hope was with him. She was always with him, like a bad angel. Every time he wielded the knife, he killed her, but time after time, she came back to life, and he had to do it all over again. One by one by one by one, he erased each glimmer of who she was. Each trace of what she’d left on earth.
And still she sat beside him.
It had been a long, terrible journey from April 1 nine years ago until now. He had never sought it out; instead, fate had found him that day, like an April Fool’s joke. It was supposed to be the last day of his life. He’d finally been ready to kill himself, to shut the door on his empty world. He’d tried several times before and failed. With pills. With a rope. With the tailpipe of Phil’s Cadillac. In the end, he’d backed out every time before death took him away.
But not again.
He’d had it all planned. April 1. He was going to go to one last Giants game with Phil. He was going to have a burger and a beer. And then, as it neared midnight, he was going to drive to the Golden Gate Bridge and follow the example of the jumpers who’d come before him. Once he cleared the rail, second thoughts didn’t matter. You couldn’t change your mind on the way down.
Instead, his life and destiny had changed completely before he got to the bridge. He thought of all the improbable things that had happened that day to set him on a different path.
If Phil hadn’t been late to pick him up for the game, Rudy would be dead at the bottom of the bay.
If he’d chosen another coffee shop in the Ferry Building, he’d be dead at the bottom of the bay.
If he’d picked a different day, not April 1, he’d be dead at the bottom of the bay.
Instead, he’d gone to that coffee shop to wait for Phil and met Nina Flores on her twenty-first birthday.
He remembered sitting on the stool at the coffee bar, with an iced latte in front of him getting watery and warm because he could barely summon any interest in taking a sip. That had been Rudy’s life at that moment, sucked clean of purpose. The stool next to him had been vacant, but Hope was there in his mind, as she always was, immortal and inextinguishable. He’d felt numb. He’d wanted nothing more than to die, if it meant it would finally drive her away.
Meanwhile, Nina Flores talked.
He’d never met anyone who could talk so much. He didn’t know how she found the time to breathe, because she filled every second with chatter. She talked. She sang. She laughed. She danced. She called out to people passing in the Ferry Building: “Hey, come wish me a happy birthday!”
Rudy had done his best to ignore her. When you are getting ready to throw yourself off a bridge, the last thing you need is a chirpy barista telling you how wonderful her life is. And it was impossible not to do the math. This girl was twenty-one years old. Wren, if she’d lived, would have been turning twenty-one in November.
Until Hope snuffed out her life. Until 3:42 a.m. came.
He’d found himself staring at Nina and thinking what Wren would have looked like at this point in her life. He’d tried to imagine her face, all grown up. He’d thought about the things they would have done together, father and daughter. The things he’d missed. The Giants game tonight? He’d be going with Wren.
The longer he’d stayed at the coffee shop, the more oppressive it had felt to be there. He’d wanted to get up and leave, but something had kept him glued to the seat, listening to this young girl babble about her life. Again, fate had conspired. If he’d left, if he’d walked away, nothing would have changed. He would have gone to the bridge. He would have gone through with his plan.
Instead, he stayed.
The less attention he’d paid to Nina Flores, the more she’d made it her mission to draw him out. After half an hour, that meant shoving her body halfway over the counter to point out the buttons she wore on her T-shirt.
“And this is my high school grad photo. Can you believe that hair? Look at all of it! I was heavier then, too. That was twenty pounds ago. These days, no carbs! Or at least, not very many. Of course, everybody has to have cake on their birthday, so I’ll make an exception tonight. Plus, I have to have a drink. What do you think? Beer? I was thinking of something stronger. Maybe tequila shots.
“This photo here, these are all of my brothers! Three brothers, no sisters. Tabby here is as close to a sister as I’ll ever have. Do you have sisters? It can be a struggle, brothers and sisters, but I’m the oldest, so they know they can’t get away with much around me. I love them, but don’t tell them I said that.
“And this is me and Tabby! Aren’t we cute? This was just like a week ago. We were heading out to a party, pretty hot stuff, huh? Look at those smiles. See—like sisters! People talk about BFFs and don’t really mean it, but that’s me and her, for sure. Right, Tabby?”
Rudy didn’t listen to what the other barista said.
He’d found himself staring at t
he oversized button pinned below the collar of Nina’s T-shirt. Leaning closer to get a better look. At first, he’d thought he was imagining things. It was a vision, brought on by what he planned to do, a last little joke played on his brain by Hope’s ghost.
But it wasn’t. It was real.
Right there on the bedroom wall behind the photograph of these two girls was a sketch of a mother and child. He knew those sketches. He had dozens of them in a box in the garage at home. Hope had made them of new mothers and new babies ever since she’d started her work as an ER nurse.
The awful reality of it had gathered like a storm in Rudy’s brain. Hope had been in a hospital room with this girl on the day she’d been born. Hope had talked to her mother. Laughed with her. She’d probably held this child in her arms. She’d sketched her face and captured her forever. Hope had seen the beauty in this girl and the love her mother had for her. This girl had grown up in a family and lived with her parents and her siblings.
This girl was alive. Wren was dead.
It couldn’t be an accident that Rudy had found her. On that day of all days.
Something about the intersection of Nina and Hope had stirred a fury in Rudy where there had previously been nothing but hollow grief. This girl was a direct connection to Hope. It was like Hope lived on in Nina Flores. She was a perennial coming back year after year—a flower that needed to be yanked out of the ground and destroyed once and for all. Maybe, if he could do that, he could be free.
Rudy had walked out of that coffee shop a different man.
He’d still gone to the Giants game with Phil. He’d had his burger and his beer. But afterward, he hadn’t gone to the Golden Gate Bridge to throw himself to the hard surface of the water. Instead, he’d spent the night in the garage with a box from his past that he hadn’t opened in twenty-one years. The box was filled with the memories of his life with Hope. He’d tried for two decades to crush those memories, but now he realized that was a mistake. He wanted to remember. He wanted to strike back. He wanted Hope to feel what he felt, to have her know that he could kill, too. He could strip away someone else’s future, someone else’s dreams, just the way she’d done to him.
He’d found the copies of the sketches. All of them. Dozens of them.
Going through them, he’d found the one he was looking for. Gilda and Nina. Staring at it, he’d finally had a plan. For years, he’d had no way of taking revenge on Hope for what she’d done. Until that moment.
Gilda and Nina.
Two weeks later, when it was done, he’d come home and taken a match and burned the sketch into ash. That night, he’d slept all the way through from dark to dawn, not waking up at 3:42 a.m.
And he’d known that he wasn’t done.
The next year, he’d taken Rae Hart away from Hope. The year after that, he’d done the same with Natasha Lubin. He’d burned more sketches and watched the flames. It was as if Hope could feel the pain of what he’d done. As if she were on the other side of a window, silently screaming at him. It was the battle that never ended. Not while he was alive.
Rudy shivered.
Behind him, a wet finger of fog caressed his neck and passed in front of his eyes like a cataract. He didn’t have much time. Night was coming soon. There was barely an hour of daytime left, and the fog was already stealing it away. He lifted the binoculars and studied the house at the base of the hill. Lights shined behind the windows, and he could see clearly into Maria’s bedroom. She read a book as she lay on the bed, but her face was grim with tension. She showed no indication of getting ready to leave the house before dark.
Why wasn’t she running?
She always ran. She ran every day. And then he knew: Frost Easton had warned her. Scared her. She was staying home, changing her routine, because of him.
Rudy didn’t think he’d get a second chance with Maria. Everything would be different tomorrow. It was now or never, and he had to do something. He reached into his backpack and booted up his phone, and he dialed her number. Through the lenses of his binoculars, he could see her get up to answer the call. In his ear, he heard the mellow sound of Maria’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Lopes? This is Inspector Wolff with the San Francisco Police. I work with Inspector Easton.” Rudy’s tone was official but friendly.
“Oh, is there news?” Maria asked.
“Yes, there is. We were able to identify the woman that Rudy Cutter has been targeting, and the good news is, it’s not you. We’re calling everyone we talked to, in order to let them know they’re safe and don’t need to worry.”
“Oh my God, what a relief.”
“I’m sure it is. Inspector Easton sends his apologies for alarming you, but of course, we had to take every precaution.”
“Of course.”
“Have a good day,” he told her.
Rudy hung up.
He watched Maria, and he waited. She paced back and forth in her bedroom. She went to the window and stared out at the dark hills, and her face broke into a nervous smile, drained of fear. She looked almost giddy now. Then, just as he’d hoped, she began to change her clothes. She put on a tight-fitting, long-sleeved athletic shirt that had bold stripes. She found a pair of black shorts. She bent over and tied the laces of red high-top sneakers.
Maria was going for a run.
Rudy reached into his backpack to retrieve his knife. Watch this, Hope.
42
Maria knew the hills as intimately as a lover. She ran them every single day of her life. As she stepped out of her front door, the cool air from the ocean hit her with a bracing blow to the face. She felt dampness; rain would be coming overnight. She jogged down the steps to the street, where she did an elaborate series of stretches to loosen up for the trails.
The warning about Rudy Cutter from Inspector Easton hadn’t seemed real, but until the call came from his partner telling her she was safe, she hadn’t admitted to herself how much the threat had unnerved her. Now, she was keyed up and flooded with restless energy. It was almost too late to run—darkness was coming soon—but if she didn’t run, she knew she’d never sleep. She needed to do something normal after a day filled with crazy fear.
When she was done stretching, she studied the hills. They were lush green and bathed in gloom, with only a handful of trees looming over the densely matted vegetation like solitary soldiers. The cloud of fog had reached the summit of the ridge and was starting to spill into the valley. She wanted a demanding run tonight, on a trail that climbed sharply uphill toward the slope that overlooked Pacifica and the ocean. A hard, strenuous workout was the way to burn off her anxiety. She slid earbuds into her ears and kicked off the playlist on her Nano. Right now, she was obsessed with Ellie Goulding, so she listened to “My Blood” as she took off toward the park. With the music pounding, she couldn’t hear anything else around her.
Running was therapy to Maria. Some runners cleared their minds as they ran, thinking about nothing except their pace and their breathing, but Maria brought her whole life with her onto the trails. Right now, she thought about Jeremy. She was a wife, singer, actress, and fund-raiser, but more than anything, she was Maria Lopes, mother to Jeremy. He was her everything. The thought of being on Rudy Cutter’s list hadn’t scared her because of what might happen to herself. The heaviness in her chest was the unspeakable fear of missing her son’s life. Not seeing Jeremy grow up before her eyes. Not being there for school, sports, dances, and girls. Not seeing what he would do and where he would go in this world. His future was far more important than her own.
Maria pushed herself higher and faster, sprinting away from the dread she’d felt all day, almost crying with relief that it was over. Tendrils of fog wrapped around her arms and legs like fast-growing rainforest vines. She felt a vibration on the phone that was lodged in the back pocket of her shorts, but she didn’t let it break her stride. If you stopped halfway up the hillside, you lost your momentum. Above her, the ocean-side ridge was invisible, just a mi
lky cloud. She ran upward into nothingness, and the only way she knew she’d reached the peak was that the ground finally leveled off under her pounding strides.
Up here, the fog swirled, like a living thing, silver and impenetrable, constantly changing. She headed west toward the ocean. The land was mostly flat but no longer paved, and she slowed her pace, because it was easy to turn an ankle on loose rock. Thick scrub brush pushed up to the trail on both sides, and the fog, as it always did, gave her a strange, disorienting loneliness. She lost track of time, and she lost track of where she was, but it didn’t scare her. She’d done this many times before.
Maria thought about the evening ahead of her. Once the nanny left, and it was just her and Jeremy in the house, she would take out her guitar and sing for her son, the way she always did. It was partly for him and partly for herself, a little piece of her past that she hadn’t given up. Years from now, she wondered if Jeremy would hear an Ellie Goulding song on an oldies station and feel a little tug in his heart and try to remember where he’d heard it before and why it reminded him of his mother.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed again and went to voice mail. It was probably Matt, calling from Malaysia or Singapore or wherever he was today, but he would understand. Running was sacred, and you didn’t interrupt the run.
She finally stopped where the trail began to turn downward. If she kept going, the path would take her all the way to Highway 1 near the Pacifica beach. It was time to head home. Maria retraced her steps, absorbed in a world that didn’t stretch more than a few feet around her in any direction. When the trail widened into an X, she knew she was back at the cross trail leading along Sweeney Ridge. Jeremy was a mile away from her at the base of the hill.
The land opened up here into a broad stretch of dirt and rock. Somewhere close by, there was a stone monument to the discovery site of San Francisco Bay. She decided to walk a while. She took the earphones out of her ears. The fog continued to play tricks with her eyes. She’d seen the oddest things up here and not known what was real and what wasn’t. One time, she’d been certain that she was surrounded by a kaleidoscope of thousands of orange monarch butterflies. Another time, she’d convinced herself that she was standing on the brink of a chasm that didn’t exist at all. She’d stood there, frozen, for several minutes before persuading herself that the cliff was nothing but an illusion.
The Voice Inside (Frost Easton Book 2) Page 26