[Jason Wade 02.0] Every Fear

by Rick Mofina

  “Because I made a deal we’d wait. They’ve just polygraphed him and are waiting for the results. They’ll give us everything—exclusively—if we hold our Bannon stuff tonight.”

  Spangler tossed his pen across the room.

  “What the hell are you doing, Wade? You talk to me first before you go making any goddamn deals with the Seattle Police Department!”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Beale grabbed Spangler’s phone and made a call. “Yeah, Chuck, it’s Vic, kill the Colson item. We’ll replate. Yes. Replace it with Gloria Lambert’s story out of Olympia—” Cursing leaked through the receiver, loud and clear. “I know. Just do it, Chuck.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Spangler ran a hand across his reddened face.

  “I’ll let you sort this thing out,” Beale said. “I’ve got a paper to publish.”

  “Get the hell out of here, Wade,” Spangler said.

  That night, Jason sat alone in his apartment with the lights off, except for the calming, soft blue glow of his aquarium. He watched his fish glide in the bubbling water as he sipped ginger ale. He sat that way for a long time, until he felt the last of the adrenaline coursing through him subside.

  Then he took a long hot shower, occasionally thinking of Grace Garner, grappling with his feelings for her and what had been at stake for both of them.

  He had to admit, he didn’t know if he would have done what he had if it was another cop. Like Boulder. Had she bested him in getting him to hold a story he’d enterprised? Had he allowed her to do it? Or was it all simply true, that they were working together to find out who was behind the murder and abduction?

  His eyes closed.

  He was too tired to know anything anymore, other than what his gut told him.

  Odds of them ever finding Dylan Colson alive just got worse.

  49

  Ice cream.

  A big, heaping bowl of butterscotch ripple with some nuts, maybe a dollop of whipped cream, and a cherry.

  That was what Lou Rifkin was thinking, sitting on his couch before his big screen and a pissed-off John Wayne in the after-midnight movie, The Searchers.

  Lou’s wife had hidden the carton in the freezer behind the cold cuts. She’d gone off to bed. Their son was out. The Rifkin home was quiet, the lights were low, and Lou was thinking he should just go to the kitchen and help himself to some of that butterscotch ripple.

  It was the first night of his vacation. He deserved to celebrate with a little treat. Sleep in tomorrow, contemplate the fact he was five years from retirement as a machinist at Boeing.

  He glanced at his stomach and dismissed his wife’s worries about his waistline. Ellie worried about everything. The ice cream was for Dex, their son the drummer, who turned twenty this Sunday. Dex was supposed to move to Century City, California, with his band, Point Blank, next month.

  Lou would believe it when it happened.

  Right now, he wanted ice cream and as the lawful owner of this abode, he was going to help himself. He grunted his way to the kitchen, stuck his head in the freezer, poked around the pork chops and rib eyes—then stopped.

  What was that sound?

  Outside.

  Yelling?

  Lou put the carton on the counter, glanced out the huge window over the sink that opened to the night.

  It sounded like yelling.

  Keeping an ear cocked, he got a bowl and a spoon, worked the lid off the carton, then looked at the far reaches of his yard. The huge double-size lot had a stand of trees on the north corner that rose above a line of shrubbery.

  There it is again. Sounds like a scream.

  Maybe it was a cat up there at the Madison place. Or a party. The property adjoined his, but the Madison yard was a huge isolated lot at the end of the lane, protected by trees and a neglected hedge that formed a massive green wall around the place. They’d let it go to hell ever since they’d started renting it, what, eight, nine years ago. Seemed like new people moved in every six months. Lou paid no attention to the comings and goings of tenants. Nobody did really.

  Except Ellie. A few months back she’d said, “I think some weirdos moved in to the Madison place this time.”

  “El, it doesn’t concern you, just mind your own damn business.”

  Besides, Lou was thinking now, as he scooped a ball of butterscotch ripple into his bowl, we never see or hear much from them. Let’s keep it that way.

  Now there it goes again.

  Screaming. Has to be a damn cat, or something.

  Licking the spoon, Lou froze.

  Brilliant yellow flashed through the bushes.

  Fire.

  His neighbor’s garage was on fire.

  Lou reached for his phone and reported it to the 911 dispatcher, then scrambled to get on his sneakers, but decided on his work boots.

  “Ellie! The Madison place is on fire! Get up, Ellie!”

  Lou’s heart rate increased. At work, he was the department’s deputy fire captain. He’d also been a technical engineer with the Army Reserves. He knew what to do. He grabbed two long garden hoses coiled on hooks in his garage, hoisted them over his shoulder. He snatched heavy work gloves, then trotted double-time to the Madison property.

  Flames glowed inside the garage.

  Jeezus.

  “Fire!” Lou yelled to the house, kicking the rear door. He’d been on the property years ago to help with some roof work. He went to the exterior water faucet and connected his hose. The rusted tap squeaked, the pipe gurgled and rattled with water as he hauled it to the garage, hoping he’d have enough pressure to douse it.

  Through the grimy window, he could see the flames rising in the garage. Take it easy, he told himself, it’s only a building. As he hit its weatherworn wooden planks with a blast of water, his skin prickled.

  Someone was screaming.

  Inside the garage!

  He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; the screams were muffled as the fire roared.

  “Help!”

  Through the window Lou saw a vehicle inside. A dark van reflecting the fire. The garage doors were unchained, unlocked. Lou opened them and a wall of fire lashed at him, forcing him to the ground. The garage was engulfed, flames rolled up the interior walls and across the ceiling.

  Above the roar, someone was screaming hysterically for help. Using the lid of a metal garbage can as a shield, Lou worked his way to the van’s rear, got the door open, items spilled to the ground, some of them igniting.

  Through heavy curtains of smoke, ash, haze, and burning embers, Lou stepped closer, struggling to see to the front of the van, which was also burning. The choking heat sucked the air around his neck, forced him to keep blinking to protect his eyes; he feared they would melt.

  The pleading continued, Lou’s stomach twisted when he saw the top of a baby’s car seat and made out the shape of an adult in the front.

  The adult’s hair was catching fire!

  Lou stepped back and doused himself with the hose; then, fighting the inferno, he climbed into the interior, crawling through the back, determined to reach the car seat and the person engulfed in smoke who was choking, coughing, gagging horribly.

  Pain shot over every part of Lou’s body. His gloves ignited, his skin seared, started blistering—God, I’m being cooked alive—Lou would die in seconds if he did not retreat.

  His hands burning, his lungs filled with choking smoke, he made one desperate grasp for the baby’s car seat before smelling gas and thinking, The van’s gas tank, just before it exploded.

  A deafening roar-thud put Lou flat on his back, staring up at the stars, his skin sizzling, sirens wailing, hand gripping the heat-warped car seat.

  Am I alive?

  No more screams.

  Just the howl of an all-consuming, purifying inferno.

  50

  At that moment, in her hospital bedroom, Maria Colson’s eyelids fluttered.

  Lee was the only person in the room with her, but was concentrating on the televisio
n suspended from the ceiling, watching late-night news reports, scanning channels, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would find a miracle.

  His anguish deepened with each passing moment, because there was no sign of Dylan, because Maria was dying, because of the polygraph.

  Because the police suspected him.

  Why?

  How could his home address and fingerprints be linked to Beth Bannon’s murder and to the van used in Dylan’s abduction? He didn’t understand. What did Grace and the FBI know? What did the polygraph show them? He’d told them the truth.

  Hadn’t he?

  Was he certain of his answers? He was so tired. So afraid. His attention was jolted as Beth Bannon’s face suddenly stared back at him from a news report. An older story. Recycled news. Nothing new.

  Lee looked at her.

  That face. That car.

  Did he know her?

  Had he met her?

  He wasn’t sure.

  What if he failed the polygraph? They had that letter. They had his fingerprints. Dylan. Where’s Dylan? He couldn’t think. He changed the channel, landing on a jittery live aerial news shot of a burning building.

  “—a fire—this is breaking news—a death or deaths, unconfirmed reports of a fatal residential building fire in Seattle tonight... despite a neighbor’s effort to douse the blaze—no other details.”

  “Dylan!”

  Lee’s head snapped to Maria. She was sitting upright—her open eyes circles of fear, her face a mask of horror.

  “Dylan!”

  Maria stared at nothing. She was in a trance-like state, fixated on her last seconds with her baby—replaying at the speed of light images of a blackbird hitting her bedroom window—a portent of death. Lee on a call in North Seattle—nightmare fears of being childless—Dylan’s crying all night—taking Dylan to the store—leaving him with Shannon—the van, the woman, oh God she’s stealing Dylan—the stroller, the door handle—pounding on the van, she’s stealing my baby! The hood—the woman staring back at me—you’re stealing my baby!

  He’s my baby! MINE!

  “No! No!”

  “Maria—”

  Lee and two nurses were calming her, comforting her. A doctor uncollared his stethoscope and checked her. The room filled with concern, more staff and hope.

  “She’s okay, right?” Lee’s voice was breaking. “She’s coming out of it, she’s going to be okay. Right? Somebody?”

  Amid the chaos of people tending to Maria, one of the night nurses ushered him out of the room to the lounge, sitting him down on the sofa.

  “Yes, Lee, it’s very good, but we have to stabilize her, check for any serious damage, run tests.”

  Lee raised his shaking hands to his face. Maria was alive. She was going to make it. He glanced around. All of their family had gone to the cafeteria. He was alone. But happy. So damn happy.

  He wouldn’t lose Maria.

  He stood, smiling, hands on his hips, not knowing where to go or what to do. The nurses coming out of Maria’s room were smiling too, their eyes shiny as they flashed Lee a thumbs-up. It was a miracle. His body trembled with adrenaline and exhaustion.

  Now he and Maria could fight this battle together.

  They would find Dylan.

  Lee turned to see Detective Garner and FBI Special Agent Dupree arrive. And they were not alone. They’d come with Jarred Sandel, Lee’s lawyer.

  No one was smiling now.

  51

  “Lee, the polygraph results were inconclusive,” Grace Garner said. “We’d like you come downtown with us so we can talk a bit more.”

  “Now? Maria just woke up. I don’t want to leave. I can’t!”

  “She’s awake?”

  Taking in the activity around Maria’s room, Grace shouldered her way to her side. Maria’s face was swollen, her eyes were clouded with fear. Nurses tended to her as Dr. Binder assessed her condition.

  “Excuse me.” Grace pulled Binder aside. “Can she talk?”

  “She’s weak, but lucid.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “Her immediate recollection is tethered to the final moments of her son’s abduction.”

  “I need to talk to her, right now.”

  “I’d rather we give her some time—say a few hours.”

  “I need to talk to her now.”

  Binder considered Grace’s request. “A few short questions, as long as I’m present.”

  Grace nodded and rummaged in her bag for her recorder and her notebook as Binder cleared the room.

  Grace took the chair next to her. “Maria, I’m Detective Grace Garner. Do you know what happened?”

  Maria’s head rolled from side to side as if to deny the tragedy, to push back time and erase it.

  “Maria?”

  “Dylan! She’s taking Dylan!”

  “Who?” Grace exchanged a look with Binder. He nodded to continue. “Who, Maria? Do you know who took Dylan?”

  Her head rolled back and forth.

  “Do you know her name?”

  Her head shook negatively.

  “Why are you taking him? Why?” Maria cried out.

  “Can you describe her, did you see or can you remember anything unusual about the woman who took Dylan?”

  Maria groaned, her head moving from side to side.

  “Give him back. He’s mine. Please give him back.”

  “Maria, do you recall any details about the woman who took Dylan?”

  Her eyes shut tight. Her face contorted as she sobbed. Mindful of her condition, Dr. Binder decided to end the interview.

  “We’ll continue assessing her, Detective. Perhaps in a few hours you could try again.”

  Grace inhaled deeply and turned for the door.

  “Tattoo.”

  She stopped cold.

  “She has a tattoo on her hand.” Maria, her voice raw, tapped the back of her left hand, touching the clear tube taped there. “The woman has a tattoo of a butterfly.”

  “A butterfly.” Grace sketched in her notebook and held it up. “Here, like this?”

  Maria’s head shook.

  “Spiderweb.”

  Grace glanced to Binder then to Maria.

  “Butterfly caught in a web. Tattoo of a butterfly in a web, here.”

  Maria tapped the back of her left hand.

  “Oh God! Give me back my baby. He’s mine. Lee! We have to find Dylan. Where’s Lee?”

  “Easy. Easy. You’re doing fine.” Binder pressed the call button to summon a nurse as he leaned forward to comfort Maria. He turned to Grace to signal that time was up, but the door was already closing behind her.

  Special Agent Dupree was talking with Lee Colson. After calling the Homicide Unit, Grace pulled Dupree aside, out of earshot, and alerted him.

  “We’ve got a lead on the primary suspect. On the back of her left hand she has a tattoo of a butterfly caught in a spider-web.”

  Dupree made an urgent call to run the details through the National Crime Information Center’s computer and the ViCAP database. The bureau also had experts on tattoos used by gangs, occultists, satanic groups. And they had contacts with tattoo artists across the country. Through the Justice Department, they’d query the Federal Bureau of Prisons—check inmate records, put out a call for help to all state and local authorities.

  “It’s a start,” Dupree told his duty agent before hanging up and returning to update Grace, who was pressing Lee Colson about the new information.

  “Think hard, Lee. Have you ever met a woman with that kind of tattoo on the back of her left hand?”

  “No.”

  Grace’s expression threw a silent question to Dupree as to whether to believe Lee. They were interrupted by a nurse at the station holding up a phone. Grace took the call.

  “It’s Boulder. Take this address down and haul ass to it.”

  “But, Stan—”

  “Looks like we’ve got the van. Torched.”

  “Is it empty?”

&nbs
p; “Looks like two fatalities inside.”

  “Two?”

  “Adult and a child, a baby.”

  A baby.

  Grace’s reflex was to look at Lee Colson, but she turned away.

  “Oh goddammit, Stan.”

  “I know, Grace. Just get the hell over there and get to work.”

  52

  Jason’s first waking thought: Morning had come too fast.

  Groping for his alarm, he tried to shut the damn thing off until he realized it was the phone.

  “Jason, this is Rosemary at the paper. You said to call you if I ever heard anything big on the Colson case over the scanners.”

  “What’re you hearing?”

  “They’ve found the van. Burned in a garage with two dead people, I think. There’s a ton of chatter on the radios, all happening now.”

  “Where?”

  Jason took down the address, reached for his pants, checked the time. 2:18 A.M. Every deadline had passed. Okay, we’re working for the Mirror’s Internet edition and tomorrow’s paper.

  “What about that new guy on nights—Dan—where’s he?”

  “Gone to a domestic standoff around Dunlap and Holly Park. Whacked-out ex-hubby says he wants to end it all because of a custody fight.”

  “All right, get a shooter rolling to the fire. Wake them up, tell them I’m on my way. You monitor the radios and call me with updates on my cell.”

  He got dressed, got into his Falcon, and sailed along traffic-free expressways listening to Hendrix’s “Midnight Lightning.” By the time he arrived, firefighters had doused the blaze, the air was heavy with the smells of smoke and ash and the growl of the pumpers as crews continued pouring water on the aftermath. Revolving lights from the tangle of emergency vehicles lit up the blackened remains of the garage and the charred skeleton of the van.

  He took in the situation and the usual telltale signs of a tragic fire: the crime scene tape cordoning the area; beyond the garden hose, evidence of the panicked effort to help; then the bright yellow tarp draped over the van’s interior.

  The death flag.

  As best as he could tell, few other news crews had arrived. He saw the WKKR van—those guys cruised the city nonstop. He didn’t see the camera, although he spotted an ambulance, doors open with paramedics treating a distraught man. That guy has to know something.