“Precisely. And the doctors don’t even know it.”
“What’s his motive for it? He doesn’t get paid.”
“He gets something even more precious to him than money.”
“What?”
“Recognition and control.”
“So what’s all this got to do with your California killer?”
Cat’s voice was passionate. “I believe the personality we are looking for is almost identical.”
Gregory looked astounded. “You think there’s a Carl Stearbourne loose on the streets of California?”
Cat scrutinized his face for a full minute and then let a breath out slowly. “Yes, yes I do.” The pitch in her voice raised. She looked around the restaurant quickly, feeling foolish. Back at your old games again, Gregory. Goading me to make a point. Then backing off. Was he playing a game? Or was Gregory just testing her theories the way he always had, knowing she’d eventually have to take all this public.
She was being silly. These propositions sounded farfetched. Gregory was testing their strength and her commitment to them. Still she felt it, like an ache in her gut.
Cat lowered her voice and leaned in closer to Gregory. “Carl Stearbourne and Eric had the closest ongoing relationship of two inmates in that place. As a society, we want to believe there couldn’t possibly be another Carl Stearbourne. We couldn’t have one incarcerated and one loose. Hell, that would be too much—the fact that society could create two such demons in one generation. But I’m telling you, he’s out there. Simple as that. Carl Stearbourne wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. I’ve been considering this for some time, Gregory.” She went to take a bite but didn’t. “Long before I ever started talking with you tonight.”
Gregory chuckled softly at her.
Cat looked at him. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
“It’s just I love it when you get mad. You’re passionate as all hell.” A tugging smile at his mouth turned into a full-fledged grin.
The item came on Tuesday afternoon in a large manila envelope addressed to Dr. Cat Powers, c/o Burning Man Task Force, Irvine.
McGregor was sitting in the back corner of the task force room. On the far wall, photos of the girls loomed. For each one, two to three shots of full-faced, confident young women. Beside these, death mask photos. Details of each body’s condition, where it had been found.
The smiling faces of innocence.
A dry vote of confidence.
Appreciated, though nothing was moving forward in the investigation.
McGregor noticed the envelope, conspicuous in its size and bulk, against business-sized envelopes on Cat’s desk. A twinge in his stomach.
Something wasn’t right with it.
Slipping on gloves, he pulled the envelope out of the stack. It was as if it did not want to come. Gave some hesitation. A lingering formaldehyde odor hit him. He brought the envelope to his nose. A stronger smell.
Some gung-ho rookie walked in, working late, trying to score brownie points. McGregor didn’t want to be in the task force room with this envelope when he opened it. Richmond’s empty office was better light. He went inside, closed the door, and sat at the desk, clearing a hole in the paperwork.
The envelope looked standard size and weight. Probably could be purchased at any one of a million locations. Placing it lettering-side down on Richmond’s desk, McGregor tweaked the metal clasp and ran his finger slowly under the gummed seal.
As the envelope opened, the smell of formaldehyde intensified.
McGregor held his breath.
Putting two fingers on the envelope’s back left corner, he tilted it to a forty-five degree angle. Something heavy inside. Dead weight, like what was in there didn’t want to come out. Choosing a pencil, he stuck its sharp point in the envelope to draw out what was inside. It slipped out.
McGregor put his head between his knees until his ears stopped ringing, spots disappeared from his vision. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
He tried Catherine’s cell phone. She wasn’t picking up. It went to voice mail.
“Dr. Catherine Powers, where the hell is she?” McGregor screamed into the receiver, spit covering it in minuscule wet spots.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I’ve tried her room. She’s not there.”
“Look. This is police business, an emergency.”
“Hold the line and let me see what I can find out.”
McGregor heard a clunk as the phone was placed down. Dead noise in his ears for thirty seconds, a telephone ringing, shuffling, then the voice back on. “I spoke to Judy; she’s on before my shift. Dr. Powers checked her messages before leaving for dinner with a gentleman. He picked her up around six.”
“Did she mention who it was?”
“Hold on.”
Dead line, but McGregor could make out a garbled conversation with someone who must have been Judy.
A female voice got on the phone. “Sir, can I help you? This is Judy Kennedy.” Although she said the word help, it was clear she was annoyed.
“I need to find Dr. Catherine Powers. You saw her last?”
A few seconds passed before a response. “Sir, we respect the privacy of our guests.”
McGregor exploded. “Look, this is police business. Life and death. You get my drift?” He took a breath and made himself settle down.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who she was with? Did she mention a name?”
“She mentioned a doctor. Task, or maybe Taft.” The woman’s voice was small. “She said they were going to Chez Paul for dinner.”
“Did you see the car she left in?”
The woman sounded tired, frightened. “Yes. A cream-colored late model BMW sedan.”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding number for messages?”
“No, sir.”
“Thanks. Do you have a number for Chez Paul?”
“Yes” She gave him the number, he wrote it down and called it right away.
After 6 rings, someone answered the line. McGregor again explained the urgency of the situation but was told that Cat and Dr. Taft had already left. He asked the obnoxious sounding host if she would be so kind as to provide the good doctor’s phone number if they had it. The woman provided it after some coaxing.
This was taking too long. He wished Cat was here. Wished he could protect her from this. Useless, childish thought.
McGregor called Taft’s home number. He was so keyed up the babysitter at the end of the line couldn’t understand him.
“I’m calling from the Irvine Police Department in California. You the babysitter?”
“Huh?” a cracking teenaged voice said.
“Look, I’m trying to locate a Dr. Catherine Powers.”
“Who?”
McGregor was tired. He’d had it. Too much time was going by.
Stop getting angry and think. He slowed his voice, purposefully took breaths between words.
“Shut up and listen. I’m trying to locate Catherine Powers. She’s a doctor who is out with Dr. Taft. Did he leave you a number where he could be reached? The name of the place they went? Anything? It’s real, real important.”
“Yeah, I got the cell number here. It’s 569-3428.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Quickly, he hung up the phone a third time in as many minutes and dialed the 619 area code and number, asked to speak to Cat. After a long empty pause they were connected.
She sounded surprised. Surprise turned to worry.
“What is it?” she said.
McGregor’s voice was shaky, uneven. “It’s another body, in a manner of speaking.”
“You need me to come back?” Cat was saying into the phone, reading his signals all wrong.
“No, Cat. I’m looking at it.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m looking at it. Jesus, Catherine. There’s no body this time.” McGregor sounded shell-shocked, the kind of voice you heard after people survived things they s
houldn’t. “He sent us a piece of her.”
“What?”
“Some poor girl’s scalp, in a Ziploc bag, addressed to you.”
“Oh God…”
“And he’s left us a message, carved in it.” McGregor sounded odd, far away.
“What does it say?” Cat begged, her voice barely audible. She heard a deep, purposeful breath from McGregor.
“Joey. He wants Joey.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
If you will it, it is no dream.
—Theodor Herzl, founder of political Zionism
Mark hears the gate open, feels an unknown presence. Automatically he smiles, waiting for the boy and the dog to run through his headlights. Metal clinking, the garage door opening. Greenery. The soothing smell of rain.
To the right, through the open passenger door, Joey’s grunt. Mark turns, seeing small, hunched shoulders, a close-cut head filling up the light. A shout.
Mark screams “Run!”
The man has Joey by the throat.
He is inside the passenger-side door now, coming headlong through the opening.
Mark hits him in the face then feels the blow before he sees it, unable to turn from it. An impact punches him backward into the truck window. A halo of impacted broken glass left where he hits. Blood on his forehead, the smell of oil.
A singular thought runs through his mind.
Joey.
Mark wants to scream “Run!” to him again, but the words will not come out. Only a groan escapes. A blackness descends over him, the presence. The man is there. Mark can feel him moving on Joey.
Say something.
Blood is trickling down his cheek, out his nose. Trying to shout, blood rises in his throat, leaves his mouth. Pain like a river of nails.
Far away, he can hear Joey crying. Out the corner of one eye, he can see him struggling, pushing the man away.
Please dear God, let someone drive by and see this. No headlights round the corner. It is a black night. Rain is pouring. No one will come.
Must make an effort to move. Left shoulder blade moves half an inch, excruciating pain. Mark vomits through blood. Eyes roll back wild. Wetness at the top of his forehead.
Must focus on the boy, on the man. Memorize some feature for later.
Let there be a later.
Stupid thought, there must be.
In a heap, but keep your eyes on Joey.
Joey is out of the vehicle running. The man catches him. The man has one hand on the child’s throat, lifts him off the weathered brick paver driveway.
He twirls the boy in the air effortlessly. Brings him down on the passenger seat, facedown, gets Joey’s arms behind him, although the boy is writhing, fighting.
Mark can hear electrical tape being pulled out of a spool, above the rain’s gentle patter. Catches a glimmer of dull gray metallic. Joey screams, jerks his head up off the seat.
Half-sensible, Mark manages a smile, eyes shining bright, at his boy.
Tape around Joey’s wrists and ankles, in quick successive circles.
Joey is crying, screaming, fighting.
Mark cannot fathom this madness. Far away, inside the house, the phone is ringing.
Lifting his head with much effort, Mark looks down at his neck, chest. Red all over him. He doesn’t want Joey to see him like this.
The man is over Joey, just inches away.
Joey says the words just a bit louder than the rain, “I’ll be all right, Daddy.”
And then Joey is gone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Reality is a staircase going neither up nor down,
we don’t move; today is today, always is today.
—Octavio Paz, “The Endless Instant”
The thump of the man’s hand carries through Joey. He is lifting, straining, pumping against this strength clamped on him. Head forced upward, trying to use it as a battering ram. But the man is bigger, stronger.
“Stop,” the man says.
Startled by the voice, Joey stops. It is not a voice he expected, not at all like the movies; it is a calm, controlled voice.
Still, this hand at his throat. No, he has not misjudged the man, he decides. It still hurts.
Joey turns his head sideways in a quick, jerking motion, feels something in his neck snap. In this, he gets what he wants—glimpses his captor’s face. The man forces his head straight.
“Don’t.” Joey’s voice comes out raspy.
Not speaking, the man simply smiles sheepishly.
A discomforting smile, as if he knows what time will bring.
Demons in the man’s eyes. Eyes the color of glass, seemingly able to reflect everything around him. Joey glimpses himself in those eyes, snared like an animal.
Desperately, Joey’s mind strains with his body. Think of a way out. He has not been cut, he is not bleeding. It is his way to fight, but he cannot, his hands, legs bound like a prisoner. Struggling against tape, his muscles produce only a dull ache. It is no good.
Joey hears his own heart beating.
Clifford is dead. This man has killed him.
Suddenly he is afraid.
He thinks of his father in the truck, eyes open, unmoving. There is a hollow emptiness inside.
Fear saps his strength. He crouches into a ball and groans. Around his neck, the clamped hand grows tighter till it is hard to breathe. Above, low street lights glimmer. Around him, a deep, chilling rain falls harder. Joey wishes the rain would camouflage him, simply make him invisible to this man. He curls up tighter.
From inside the house, he can just barely hear the phone ringing. He supposes it has been ringing all along, though he is not sure why.
Joey wants to turn his face from his dad’s Yukon, but he can’t. His hands are fighting each other now, if only to wipe tears. Light seems harsh. There is a giant sound in his ear, like the sound of gushing water. Cold, shaking, hair matted, rainwater running over his lips like a river, Joey feels his stomach muscles bunch up. Wants to just curl up and go to sleep.
Rain and tears on his jacket.
Pain rushes in like a wave. Terrible pain.
He is up off the pavement.
Time has slowed. It is as if each raindrop takes minutes to fall.
A hard, thick hand.
The calm voice commanding him to walk.
Cannot get his legs to do anything, like his bones are gone. The man drags him, new sneakers scraping on wet blacktop.
There is an SUV not far away, a big black Cadillac Escalade.
The man commands him not to scream because now they are in front of the neighbor’s, the Grahams’ house.
Do as you are told.
Practically on his knees, he’s being pulled, then a sudden surging force and he is inside something. Metal slams hollow over him.
Blackness. He is in the back of the SUV, shoved into the space that holds the spare tire. There is metal above. He can feel it with his fingertips. He tries to get up but hits his head. As the SUV takes off, Joey lurches forward, then back.
Above, a great expanse of nothingness. He looks at it for what seems an eternity. Eyes tiring of focusing on blackness. Tiny finger reaches through black to the metal, working over grooves and fissures that feel like rivers and canyons.
Tears come again.
Focus on the last clear image he had before this began. Read the face, but it will not come clear.
His father’s face is splattered red.
His mind is full of possibilities of what is about to happen. The unthinkable already has; his father is dead.
Joey struggles up, balancing weight on the small of his back. Inside this place, it smells of mold, grease, dirt. Below him, what feels like a small thin mattress, sharp metal springs jabbing his thighs, buttocks. He can almost taste the rusted metal springs.
In this instant, he wonders if he can disappear. Make himself invisible. Will it, as he has willed other things. Then the pain would leave him too.
And things would be as they were.
&n
bsp; Time stretches into nothingness.
His only companion, brakes squealing. Muffled sounds of the man talking to someone, above the liquid violins. A rapid rush of blood to his head. Could there be two of them? He does not remember two, but it could be. Concentrating, he realizes there is only one voice. No one speaks back.
Thoughts of his father…
I want to see my mother. Thoughts of her flow immediately after thoughts of his father. If he closes his eyes hard enough and long enough, he can reach up and touch her. His mother destroys men like this. He wants her here now.
Outside, the SUV is idle, then roars out. Forced down into the mattress, which smells raw, ragged, dirty.
Joey will not shrink down. Arms to his side, to brace himself for the next turn, he makes sense of it. The small man with the calm voice driving; he must be the one Mom is after. But why would he come here? Why to him? Each passing second brings more questions.
At his age, Joey thinks death is unimaginable. Life is infinite. There had only been one exposure to death in his life, the day his Grandma Sasha, a wrinkled figure with cloudy eyes, passed away. She was seventy-nine. Joey remembers holding the brown speckled hand, cold, crooked fingers for a long time, listening to her breathe soft and shallow. She had known he was there with her; he could feel warmth, followed by a slight squeeze, then gradual coldness. Joey had been led out of the room by his mother, and he had not seen Grandma Sasha anymore. She’d gone to live with the angels.
Whispering “Stop this, stop this” to himself, to the man, but the man does not hear.
The SUV is moving—one corner, then another. Its ride is jarring and rough.
How far would it be before they are out of town?
He wonders, but he can’t tell without a window. There is no way to know. Joey wants the sun on his face, fresh air. Here there is none of that. Only darkness. But he will fight it, he must fight it.
Pulling knees up to chest, he holds on, kicking with all his might. The metal will not budge. He kicks again and again, but nothing moves. Only now does he realize he has lost his shoes. Feet wet, cold through damp socks. How did he do that? Maybe when the man yanked him in here. Maybe they’d find them on the sidewalk.
The Burning Man Page 20