McGregor entered the room, wearing a sports coat that looked as beat as he did. When he saw her eyes open, he smiled widely. “Hey there. We missed you.”
“How long have I been out?” Cat’s words conveyed urgency, directness. She managed to prop her body up. Instinctively, McGregor reached behind, drawing two flat pillows to the arch of her back. With the movement, she felt soreness permeate each fiber…her right arm and shoulder hurt the most.
“What the hell did I do?” She gave McGregor a quizzical look.
He chuckled in spite of himself. “You fainted, went down pretty hard, knocked your head.”
She said nothing, rubbing her shoulder. “How long?”
“They’ve had you here overnight, just for observation. Barker said you look like hell, haven’t been taking care of yourself.”
“Anything broke?”
“Nope, you didn’t bust nothin’ up, just bruised a few spots. You got some fluid in your lungs. They think it might be a bronchial virus or something.”
“Then why won’t they let me out of here?”
“You needed the rest, Cat. You’ve been working on this case night and day for weeks. You haven’t been sleeping at night. You’re a wreck. You need rest.”
She considered his statement, the lines around his eyes, mouth, more prominent than before, etched with worry for her. “How can you ask me to rest at a time like this?”
“I can’t ask it, or expect it. I’m just telling you what the doctors say.”
“Screw the doctors.”
Just then Dr. Barker walked into the room. By all appearances, he was a man given to excess, just as Cat remembered. A forty-five inch waist, large hands, six foot three, he was the kind of man who made an entrance. One couldn’t mistake, or ignore, his huge girth or charming smile. His eyes danced over her. “Well, Catherine. Finally awake are we?” He smiled halfheartedly at McGregor. “Let’s have a listen, shall we?”
Dr. Barker stepped around McGregor, leaning Cat forward with one massive hand so he could place the stethoscope to her mid-back. It felt cold on her skin; she felt gooseflesh rise across her neck. He commanded her to exhale and inhale normally a few times as he moved the device, listening. Then he leaned her back on the pillows, doing the same in front just below her collarbone.
Cat felt embarrassed having McGregor there; she didn’t want him to see her like this.
“Now, I understand there’s been some talk of you walking out of here. Impetuous, aren’t we?”
He let his words stand in the air for a moment, a broad smirk painted on his lips.
Cat would have none of it. She was dead serious. “Doctor to doctor, okay? I’m taking up a bed. Prescribe me some antibiotics. Amoxicillin or a Z-Pak will kick this. You don’t need me to be here, and I don’t want to be here. I’ve got things to take care of.”
McGregor offered no support, staring out a window that looked onto the street below.
Cat gave him an angry sideways glance.
Dr. Barker cleared his throat. “You ever heard the saying…”
She wouldn’t let him finish the line. “I know, a doctor makes the worst patient.” Each voice mocked the other, words mirroring so well it made McGregor take his eyes off the road.
“Come on, I’ll slow down if I’m not feeling good.”
Dr. Barker looked unconvinced.
“Okay, here’s the deal. McGregor here’s with me most of the time, like a regular watchdog.” Cat studied him to see if he was paying attention. True to form, McGregor looked like an obedient puppy. “He’ll take care of me. I place my care in his hands. If I’m feeling lousy, he can bring me right back here, I won’t protest.” She looked at Dr. Barker matter-of-factly.
He knew she was playing a game, but he couldn’t make her stay. This was the next best thing. Dr. Barker turned to McGregor. “You’ll kick her ass if she doesn’t take care of herself?”
McGregor’s face brightened. “It would be a pleasure to kick her ass.” He flashed a mischievous grin.
“Good, all right then. We have a deal.” Dr. Barker placed a corpulent palm in the detective’s. They shook.
Cat looked up to the heavens. “Thank God for small miracles.”
“I’ll have you released within the hour. Your clothes are in the closet,” Dr. Barker said, walking out to the hallway. Before he said it, Cat was out of bed, already gathering her things.
THIRTY-ONE
The race is to the swift;
The battle to the strong.
—John Davidson, “War Song”
Cat heard the brakes squeal. The lights of Quantico faded slowly in the back windshield. Gradually, the scene along the freeway had moved from a concoction of inner strip malls, fast-food restaurants, and small houses packed too close together to a green agriculture, apple trees, orchards. The air smelled sweet with ripening fruit. Farther out, giant elms and pines filled up the dusk, casting shadows down on the road.
Then on to the Beacon Hill Estates, two-story three- and four-bedroom homes that sat in neatly trimmed culs-de-sac behind a lapping waterfall that continuously cascaded in back of polished brass letters that announced the development.
Cat sat in silence as they passed it, listening to the car rumble under her feet. It was the second time in two days she’d passed it, and she hoped never to see it again. With the silence thick, oppressing, McGregor had to know how she felt.
Cat rolled her head on her shoulders to ease the stiffness in her back.
“Thanks for getting me out of the hospital,” she said to McGregor.
“No problem.”
He had an odd look on his face, like he also was dreading going back. For Cat, there was a great risk in returning to this place, but the prize she sought there was the power to understand what happened. If she could do that, she could move forward. And she could find Joey.
Cat knew she didn’t have to dread this house. It was not the house that had done her harm; it was the man that had been there. The more she thought of it, she knew there was a link between the man she’d been stalking in California and all this. Anything else was too coincidental.
Blinking back tears, she let the blame fall squarely on her shoulders. And yet there was strength in her belly now, born of sheer will—the will to know, to make things right.
She thought of what must have happened. Hiding in the bushes, he had waited for them. In her mind’s eye, she could see Joey walking up the driveway, sneakers skipping along, finding Clifford. Mark in the truck, engine running, unaware, waiting for the garage to open. Joey running out, terrified. This man, this stalker, over him, already on him before Mark could do anything. A struggle. Followed by a fatal blow to the head. The crushing force. Cat wished Joey hadn’t seen it, though she was sure he had.
Although she dealt with criminals every day, the worst of humankind, up to this point she had always felt secure. Now she wasn’t sure she could ever feel that way again. The brutal reality, that she and the people she loved were the hunted, haunted her. She’d been a fool to believe anything less.
McGregor watched her hollow gaze, knew what she was thinking. Like the time he found Nancy Marsh.
She only wanted to save what was savable.
McGregor stopped the car at the end of the cul-de-sac, drawing up too close to the curb. A high-pitched squeak as the tires rubbed the curbstone. McGregor turned left, parked in front of the Grahams’.
Across the street, canary yellow crime scene tape had broken, fluttering in a light breeze, the letters unreadable.
Two cars were parked in the Grahams’ driveway, one a white Chrysler, the other a late model Mercedes, Mrs. Graham’s pride and joy. Much of the house was dark. Cat could see a dim light behind frosted glass and mini blinds in the living room. She heard voices in there, one she recognized as Patsy Graham.
Cat rang the doorbell, listened to the boing-boing on the other side.
A woman’s footsteps coming. Patsy Graham answered the door, pulling it back to peer
through a latched opening. From the inch exposed, Cat could see she was wearing no shoes. “Hi, Patsy, it’s Catherine Powers. This is Detective McGregor. Can we come in?” Patsy mumbled something. Cat could hear a chain unlatch, tinkle against the heavy door.
“Come on in. We got time before dinner.” She spoke in forced pleasantries, as if it really were an intrusion. Cat was sure the gossip mill had started about what had happened the day before, why Cat hadn’t been there. Laying blame where it might well belong.
Cat stepped over to the hearth. A pungent cabbage and corned beef odor. The house was as untidy as she remembered last time. Patsy moved quickly, stocking feet quiet on the smooth floor.
“Have a seat.” Patsy led them to the formal dining room with its blue wingback chairs, attempt at fine art on the walls. Cat felt uncomfortable for intruding, assured the woman they wouldn’t take up much of her time. From a side room, she glimpsed Patsy’s kids, WWE Monday Night Raw blaring.
“Turn the damned TV down, we have guests,” Patsy hollered through the doorway. A pimpled teenage boy, not much heavier than a paperclip, scowled at his mother but did what he was told, turning down the bad wrestling TV show. Cat noticed his left leg in a full cast.
“Thank you!” she shouted in a condescending tone. She turned to Cat and McGregor, put her hands on her knees. “Now, what can I do for the two of you?”
“You know about Joey?”
Dismay washed over the woman’s face. “Oh, my God yes.” She reached over, put her palm on Cat’s knee. “I feel so horrible for you. Poor child. Do you know who did it yet, any leads?” As she said “leads” she looked at McGregor, trying to impress. This woman had been watching too much True Detective TV.
“I know they went over everything with you on the night of the kidnapping, but I was wondering if you saw anything unusual.” Cat asked.
Patsy scrunched up her nose. “What do you mean by unusual?”
“Like out of the ordinary. Anybody hanging around?”
“Can’t really say. Anyway, I’m at work all day. Retail job doesn’t pay jack, and I’m on my feet all day.” As if by instinct, she rubbed a hosed foot that she’d curled almost underneath her frame. “The one to ask would be Jimmy.” In the next second, without waiting for a response, she shouted, “Jimmy, get in here. Mrs. Powers wants to ask you something.”
The paperclip thin boy emerged from the rec room, leaning his frame against the doorjamb. Thin waxy arms, a flash of red hair. He wore black jeans three sizes too big. Cat couldn’t tell if they were faded purposefully or just plain dirty. A white T-shirt emphasized his pallor, three angry swelling pimples just above his collar. Now that he was standing upright, Cat could see the boy’s cast went all the way from his hip down to his foot. The only semblance of skin that materialized was three white toes.
“Come over here and sit down,” his mother commanded, patting her hand on the seat beside her. The boy practically fell on the sofa, twirling himself as he went, landing with his butt just barely where he wanted it, not on the floor. Both hands down, he pulled the heavy cast, straightened his back.
“Jimmy, you remember Mrs. Powers…”
“Uh-huh. Who’s this guy?” His eyes flashed at McGregor.
“A detective,” his mom interjected. “Isn’t that exciting?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cat hoped the conversation would become more intelligent over time. Scanning his cast, she asked, “How’d you manage that?”
“Football. Some defensive back decided to have a field day with my leg.” Said it without remorse but with revenge. Cat wondered what this twig of a boy could possibly be plotting.
“Fractured?” McGregor questioned.
“Yeah, in three places. They just let me out of the hospital last week.”
“I can relate to that,” Cat said.
“So what do you guys, I mean, what do you want?”
“Just a few questions. Your mom says you’re the resident homebody around here.” McGregor took on an easy manner. Years of working interviews, some tougher than others, had taught him how to read people fast.
“Yeah, really sucks. Can’t go back to practice for another month till things heal up.” With the first full sentence the boy had put together, Cat could tell he was still going through the voice change that marked puberty. Unintentionally, syllables cracked and lurched out of his lips.
“So you been hanging out?”
“Yeah, just watching the tube, dumb daytime TV stuff, soaps…” He grimaced as he said it. “Reruns, you know…” His voice trailed off with a croak.
As the boy scratched behind his ear, Cat noticed tattoos on his fingers. Knuckles inscribed with WAR.
Nice neighborhood, she thought, praying Joey hadn’t hung around with this kid.
McGregor leaned into the boy. “You notice anything unusual last night or over the past few days?”
The boy’s face went blank, disengaged. “Huh?”
Open-ended question, open-ended answer, thought Cat. McGregor obviously thought the same thing and got down to the nitty-gritty.
“The kid across the street, Joey…”
The boy chuckled, a mean laugh. “Yeah, little fart kid, always over here, asking to borrow my skateboard. Loaned it to him once, he busted his ass…” A laugh just long enough for a swat on the backside of his head.
The boy straightened up, eyes averted to the carpeting.
“You see anyone hanging around? Watching the house? Especially last night? Before the police showed up?”
“Yup. Black Cadi SUV been parked on the street for a few days at places up and down. Windows tinted. I only saw the guy once. Not real big, kinda, you know, he looked like a fag. Small-boned. Real pris.”
Cat caught her breath, looked down at her hands. Unconsciously, she was rubbing them on her knees trying to get the sweat off. “You saw a man?” she asked. Take small gulps of air, she told herself, try to control your ragged breath.
“Yeah, guy looked in his thirties, early forties maybe. Never seen him round here before.” The boy picked nervously at one of his pimples.
“Can you describe him for us?” McGregor asked intently.
The boy squirmed, apparently uncomfortable being the center of adult attention.
Cat white-knuckled her clasped hands, her mind full of the possibilities of what the man might look like.
“He was, like I said, white, maybe late thirties, early forties. Close-cropped hair, like a buzz cut sorta. Couldn’t really see his eyes, but they were light-colored. Medium to smallish build. Kind of guy, I could kick his ass if I wanted.” He smiled naughtily, looked at his mother, met her disapproving gaze and kept talking. “Maybe weighed 160, 170 max.”
“Height?”
“Don’t really remember. Five seven, five eight maybe. Like I say, I only saw the guy once.”
“Did you catch a license plate number, anything unusual about the car?”
“Nope, didn’t really pay much attention. Just thought the guy was sorta odd. Like a goof, ya know?”
McGregor nodded. “You said a black Cadi. You remember the make?”
“Yeah, an Escalade, like Ms. Sullivan drives at school. Four-door, I think. No spinners on it though.”
McGregor was scribbling it all down in a little notebook.
“Anything else you remember about the guy?”
“Nope. Just a weirdo. You need me for anything else? I wanna go watch wrestling. I’m missing the best match.”
“No, thanks. We might give you a call later on in the week. And I’m gonna leave your mom my card in case you remember anything. Be sure to call us.”
The boy was already up off the couch. “Uh-huh, sure thing,” he called back over his shoulder.
THIRTY-TWO
We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not have done; and there is no health in us.
—Book of Common Prayer
Get a composite artist out he
re for a sketch?” McGegor looked at her disapprovingly.
“Got any other smart ideas?” Cat said, rolling her eyes. She was a little too tired to deal with his doubts at this point.
“Yeah, for starters, we check with all the area rental agencies and used car lots. Check to see if anyone’s rented or bought a used black Escalade in the last few weeks.”
“And…?”
“Cross-check those names with passengers on flights coming into Quantico from LAX and South Orange County over the last two weeks.”
“Okay…that might narrow the list to ten names. And do you think I have time to track each one of those names down? Speak to each of them in a nice ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, my kid’s out there with a madman and we’re trying to track him down’ investigation?” Cat was seething, not really angry at McGregor per se, but angry with the time that was passing, unable to slow it down.
“I know this is killing you, Cat, but it’s the best we can do at this point.”
Sitting in the rented car, Cat felt the weight of the universe on her shoulders. It was as if nothing was what it should be, yet everything was the same.
“There is something I can do. I mean, it doesn’t make sense for the both of us to be out here. I get the impression this guy had some reason we’re not focusing on for picking Nancy Marsh as his first victim. He didn’t just pick her out of the blue. He knew her, watched her for some time, just like he did Joey. I know it. There’s got to be some connection with the girl that we haven’t clued in on. You do what you need to do here. I’m going back to California to see if this hunch checks out. There’s got to be something, something so casual, so insignificant in Nancy Marsh’s life that we are just overlooking it. Someone that matches our profile. I have a gut feeling the killer knew Nancy personally. That’s the reason she was the first. He felt safe enough with her to allow her to be his first.”
Maybe she was crazy for believing in this, but right now it felt good to believe in something. And her instincts were the only thing she could trust. She was taking a great risk and she knew it.
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