Head Start (Cedar Tree #7)

by Freya Barker

  “One thing Damian mentioned earlier,” Jasper’s voice comes over the speaker. “He wants us to double check some of the physical descriptions. How did Kendra describe the guy again? Something about pale eyes?”

  I rifle through my notes trying to find her description. “Here it is, tall but on the slim side, dark hair and pale gray or blue eyes. Also, he wears glasses.”

  “Okay, that’s what Gomez said, but he mentioned the guy moves with a slight limp. According to him, Cayman fits the description, but there was no mention of a limp in Kendra’s description.

  “Maybe he just twisted it,” Gus suggests.

  “No. Guy was in a car crash twelve years ago. Crushed his ankle. He’s apparently got a bunch of pins keeping everything in place. Possible she missed it. There could have been dim lighting in the coffee shop, but just for the record, check with her, it may just be something she forgot to mention.”

  “I’ll double check with her,” I offer calmly, but inside that niggle starts getting a bit more pronounced.

  “You do that, and in the meantime, I just sent those files you requested. I’m out. If there’s anything new let me know and I’ll keep you up to date on any news from Gallup.” With that, we hear the click of Jasper hanging up.

  I turn to Joe, who is facing the large whiteboard set up along the far wall of the conference room. On it are listed the names of the four victims, the two women still missing and added to the bottom is Kendra’s name, slightly set apart. Beside them are the corresponding archangel names and beside those are names associated with those archangel accounts. Katie has been busy, digging up one more name and one partial one for the aliases. The other three accounts we have yet to sort through.

  -

  Tracy Poole ✝

  - Raguel

  - Marc Salany

  Cora Jennings ✝

  - Sariel

  - Alan Cymars

  Lise Carbonneau ✝

  - Mikhael

  - Carl M.

  Alison Kewen ✝

  - Uriel

  - ...

  Shirley Haig

  - Gabriel

  Jenny Weber

  - Remiel

  Kendra Schmitt

  - Raphael

  - Lars Cayman

  -

  A ping from my laptop alerts me to the arrival of Jasper’s e-mail with the promised images. I wince when I open the first attachment. The mottled expanse of a woman’s back, with what looked to be two slim wings starting on either side of the spine, curving up and across the shoulder blades before dipping down as far as the curve of the woman’s buttocks. Zooming in I can see individual feathers carved in the flesh, feathering the outside of either wing. If I didn’t know I was looking at the work of a knife, I’d think it was a massive tattoo. As it is, it must have taken hours upon hours to accomplish. On each of the feathers carved out, a thin layer of skin was lifted back from the subcutaneous flesh, curling up at the tips and resulting in the appearance and texture of real feathers. Intricate and macabre. Artistic and grotesque.

  “Holy hell,” Gus voices behind me. “Forward that to Mal.”

  “Sending you the files right now, Mal,” I announce, knowing that he is still conferenced in. Joe has closed in behind me, looking at the screen over my shoulder at the gruesome images. As I flick through the files, I note that the wings on each of the victims are almost identical in appearance, as if it was done by rote. Someone with artistic ability who clearly has drawn or painted, or maybe even carved these wings over and over again.

  “He’s an artist,” I throw out there and the responding hums and grunts tell me I’m not alone in thinking that. “Mal, are you seeing this?”

  “I sure fucking am.” There is no mistaking the sound of disgust in his voice. “Had to close the door to make sure Kim doesn’t happen to walk in on this sick crap.”

  “Okay,” Gus takes his seat at the head of the table again. “Mal, you’re the resident artist: start looking for artists anywhere in the Four Corners region, who have a thing for wings. And use a print out of the best of these pictures to make a sketch. Something you can use to show people. We can’t use these damn photos. Google it, talk to galleries, art departments at colleges. Any kind of connection you can think up. This kind of talent can’t have gone unnoticed.” Then he turns his attention to Joe. “Joe, can you add the artist bit to the board?”

  Joe takes up his position by the white board again and adds to the list of traits we have so far ascribed to the unsub. His picture is getting a little clearer, but it seems the more we uncover, the more questions arise.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kendra

  It’s been three days since I last saw Neil.

  He’s called a few times every day, and I could tell he’s been preoccupied, but I still feel out of the loop. Or maybe I just miss him. Ridiculous. A handful of kisses and nothing else, and already I managed to get hooked.

  When he called this morning to let us know the road had just opened, I was so disappointed. Not that the road is open, because once again my food supply is getting low, and I really need to hit the grocery store. But that he didn’t come by. Not like he lives very far.

  I’d worked a few shifts at the Cedar Tree clinic, but a lot of my regulars normally drive in from Cortez or even Mancos, and no one was able to get in. I managed to use some of the freed up slots for locals who were waiting for appointments. I was still left with holes in my workday and too much time to think. Luckily, the same was true for Naomi, so we were able to catch up a bit. She already heard about the missing women from Joe and was worried when I told her about my slightly disastrous foray into the world of online dating. Fortunately, the timely arrival of Fox killed that discussion quickly. I love that kid. Even though he can hardly be called a kid anymore.

  Mom had kept busy during the days spring-cleaning the yard. Something I had no idea was needed and happily left to her. This morning she’d just finished planting a vegetable garden. Perfect timing, because the moment Neil called to say the road was passable, she started gathering what little stuff she had—she’d been dressing in my clothes—and was ready to get out of town. And I have to admit, as much as I loved spending some good time with her, I’m ready for my life to get back to normal too. Sort of.

  -

  “Isn’t he a little big?”

  Mom is standing at a safe distance, even though the lanky, large black dog I’m crouching next to, is as docile as a baby. I managed to convince her to come with me to the animal shelter before she left.

  The young man who showed us to the dog’s cage chuckles in the background.

  “He really is a very sweet and gentle dog,” he tries to assure my mother, but from the look on her face, I can tell she’s not convinced. She’s stuck on his size, and he is big. With short black hair, gangly legs that make him look like a young calf, the slightly elongated muzzle and his soulful brown eyes, he’s already captured my heart. How could I not fall in love with this four-legged creature whose first move was to walk straight into me, butting his head into my thighs and staying there? Chaos, the nametag on his cage says.

  “How old is he?” I ask the volunteer.

  “From what we can gather, he’s around six years old. He’s up to date on his shots, has been neutered and is otherwise healthy. He spent some time with a foster family when he was turned over to us. We had to make sure he was suitable as a family pet.”

  The big galoot, his tongue lolling as I scratch him behind his ears, is certainly friendly enough. “I assume he is, or he wouldn’t be up for adoption. Now it said in the description that he’s a retired working dog? What does that mean?”

  “He was a sniffer dog for the DEA, but he failed his last two field tests and was retired. His handler couldn’t keep him due to family circumstances and so he ended up here.”

  Poor rejected baby.

  “Okay, so what would I have to do if I wanted to adopt him?” I ask, ignoring Mom, who is looking at me with her
eyes bulging.

  “Fill out an application, but I would suggest you take it with you. There are some specific questions on there regarding your home, experience and work schedule that might trigger some questions on your part.” From there, the man goes into what sounds to be his standard listing of things to consider when adopting. I listen, a little disappointed I can’t just bring him home today, and trying not to get too distracted by the big warm body of Chaos pressed against my side.

  By the time we walk out of the building, I already know that, unless the shelter finds some kind of fault with me, Chaos will be coming home with me. As soon as possible.

  “Shall we grab a quick coffee before I get on the road?” Mom suggests, and I give her directions to the Spruce Tree Espresso House. Once there we settle in at a table for two at the window, and I’m suddenly reminded that just three days ago, I met Lars here for coffee. Scary to think that so much can happen in such a short period of time.

  Mom interrupts my thoughts when she starts talking. “You know, I’m thinking maybe I should stay a bit longer. At least until this situation is resolved. I can call the hospice. I’m pretty sure they’ll understand if I change my plans again.”

  “No, Mom. Really. It’ll be fine. You’ve met the GFI guys now. Do you seriously think they’d let anything happen to me? Besides, you can’t disappoint your residents again. They love you.”

  Mom works a few days a week at Mariposa Hospice in Durango. She started working there about five years after my father passed away. The residents of Mariposa are mostly palliative care patients, and they are offered a home-like setting to spend their last months, weeks and sometimes even days with around the clock care. Mom has a love-hate relationship with her work, but still love wins out. It’s important work, guiding people gently into an inevitable death. I know I couldn’t do it.

  “Can I be honest with you?” she says with a smile.

  “Of course.”

  “I was a little bit relieved when I got that stomach bug. As much as I would probably have enjoyed myself on the cruise, I’m glad I stayed home. It feels good to be needed here, and it was an unexpected treat to spend some time with you.”

  We sip our coffee, with Mom mostly asking questions about the clinic, how am I liking the new place, am I sure a dog is a good idea and last but not least she tries to probe me about my feelings for Neil. Something I try not to think about too much.

  “Just don’t waste too much time, okay honey?” Mom says as we say goodbye in the parking lot. She promised to call me in a few days to see how things are and made me promise to let her know if anything happens. My mother still gives the best hugs, and for a minute, I close my eyes and let the feeling wash over me. I’ll never get too old for that.

  Once she gets in the car, I lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she catches my face in her hands. “Dare to be happy, Kenny. There’s no payoff without a little risk, and regrets are so much harder to carry to your grave than mistakes are.”

  -

  “Do you need a hand with anything?”

  I turn to the sales clerk at the Pet Pad who walks up beside me.

  I’d been about to turn right out of the parking lot of the coffee house to head back to Cedar Tree when I remembered there’s a pet store around the corner. On impulse I turned left, figuring I’d put my mother’s last words into action. Taking a little risk.

  Well, the risk right now is picking the right dog food. Good grief, I never realized how many different kinds there are.

  “I’m a little overwhelmed with the choice,” I admit with a little smile to the young woman. She instantly smiles back.

  “Oh I know, right? I can barely keep it straight. So what do you usually feed your dog?” she asks. A perfectly valid question, but one I have no good answer to.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, but seeing the confused expression on the girl’s face, I quickly elaborate. “You see, I’m about to adopt a dog”—Of course I’m not a hundred percent sure yet, but I’m rolling with it—“so I haven’t actually had a chance to feed him anything yet.”

  The clerk looks in my cart, which holds the largest dog bed I could find, two large metal bowls with this handy little stand, a handy-dandy leash that can clip around my waist for hiking, a bulk bag of chew bones and six different kinds of doggie treats, just in case. I can tell the girl is barely able to suppress a giggle.

  “Fine, I admit, I’m totally new at this.” I throw up my hands when she finally bursts out laughing. “Tell me what I need.”

  A smile still on her face, she asks me about the dog, and I tell her what I know, which turns out to be not a whole lot. She briefly pauses to look at me with her eyebrow lifted when I tell her I haven’t even filled out the adoption form yet. We manage to whittle down the treats to one bag of natural little chews—great for training, according to my new friend. She also tosses the bulk bag back on the shelf and hands me a giant single rawhide bone with big knots at either end.

  “A big dog can choke on those small bones. The big ones are better.”

  Right. Don’t want to choke my dog the first time I give him a bone.

  Instead, she adds a rubber thing she calls a Kong, and explains that if you put some all-natural peanut butter in that thing, a dog will be happy all day. I’ll just take her word for it.

  A mere $236.17 later, I have my SUV loaded with dog stuff I may or may not need. Lissy, the girl at the pet store, almost sold me a dog crate too. The sad part is, if the thing hadn’t been big enough to fill the entire living room, I might’ve bought it. I really want to be a good dog parent.

  Since I’ve got my car turned the wrong way anyway, it probably wouldn’t hurt to make a stop at Safeway to stock up a bit. And while I’m there anyway I might as well pick up some of that beer Neil likes so much. Just in case he were to come by. Anyway, beer doesn’t spoil.

  Just needing to stock up on the basics, it doesn’t take me long before I’m walking out of the store with a couple of bags in my hand. The sound of brakes screeching has me whip my head around to where a woman with a shopping cart barely manages to jump out of the way of an older station wagon. Dark green and with rust holes the size that would fit a man’s fist, the car looks oddly familiar. With the woman yelling at whoever is driving, the car accelerates and speeds by me, allowing me only a brief look at the person behind the wheel.

  Impossible.

  For a moment there, I could’ve sworn I saw Lars’s pale eyes behind those dark-rimmed glasses looking back at me. It initially startles me but I soon come to the conclusion it can’t have been him. Last I heard he’s being held for questioning in Gallup. There’s no way he could have been the one behind the wheel.

  The woman is already moving again, pushing her cart toward her car. She seems to be okay. The bags are getting heavy in my hands, so I make my way over to the RAV. I lift the last bag in the backseat and have my body leaning in the door, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder and the air rushes from my lungs.

  Neil

  It’s late afternoon by the time I leave the GFI offices. My plan is to drive home, grab a couple of things just in case and go check in on Kendra and her mom.

  For the last two nights, I’ve been holed up either in the GFI boardroom or in the guest house with a crying Kara whose partner of two years just broke up with her over the phone. Not really my cup of tea—heartbreak—but given that I’m the only one who even knows there is a partner in the picture, there was no one else for her to turn to. So long hours of talking—well, Kara talking and me listening—and then finally, later last night, there was a bit of a break through. I only heard Kara’s half of the conversation, but from the teary smile on her face, I could tell the news was good. Thank God. I don’t think I can do this understanding bit much longer. Not when I have a slightly relationship resistant woman of my own to contend with. One who I’d much prefer spending some time with. Good thing Elsa’s been around.

  -

  When I pull into the street,
I can see from a distance that her car isn’t in the driveway. Right away I get that uneasy feeling in my gut. As soon as I exit the truck, I lift my hand at the old lady across the street, who once again is peeking over her fence, before leaning back in the cab to grab my gear. I leave the overnight bag I quickly packed in the truck. It’s good to have it just in case, but with Elsa still around, the likelihood is slim that anything will happen. I key in the number to unlock the front door and walk straight through to the dining room table, where I dump my stuff. There is no evidence of either woman in the house, so out of curiosity I head up the stairs to the bedrooms. The spare bedroom is exactly as I last saw it, and when I push open the door to the bathroom, I see only one toothbrush in the holder. Looks like Elsa may be on her way home.

  Over the last few days, we’ve been able to narrow down a profile of sorts on the unsub, which is helpful if you know where to look. Cayman was released on Tuesday with nothing to hold him on, but he had volunteered to cooperate fully with the investigation despite the objections of his lawyer. He apparently claimed he had his car broken into and indeed had filed a report with the Grand Junction PD on Saturday afternoon that his door had been forced open. He claims his briefcase, with the maps Kendra gave him, as well as his laptop and stereo were taken from the car. He’d ended up having to rent a car to get home. I haven’t had a chance yet to speak with Gomez face to face, but I hope he is smart enough to keep an eye on the guy regardless. In the meantime, I have no intention of leaving Kendra on her own until this guy is caught. I just haven’t had a chance to discuss it with her yet.

  The sound of the front door opening, a loud crash and then what sounds like muttered swearing, announces Kendra is home. A deep sigh of relief releases tension I wasn’t aware I was feeling.