Contest

by David Wood

  “I’ll follow him,” Bones said quietly. “You scope out the house.”

  Maddock nodded. He was in no condition to stalk anyone. As Bones melted into the darkness, he lurched to his feet. He managed to do it without any sort of groan or grunt, which he claimed as a small victory. Even better, he managed to jog all the way to Shipman’s house. The trek had left him feeling like Daniel Boone running the Shawnee gauntlet, but he was still on his feet.

  Shipman’s house sat all alone, hidden by the hills that hemmed it in on all sides. This was the first time Maddock had laid eyes on it, and he was surprised by what he saw.

  As Riv had said, the house was constructed in the motif of a Medieval castle, boxy with gray stone walls, tall, narrow windows, and a third-floor garret at the top. Maddock made a quick inspection of the grounds. There wasn’t much to see. Like most people in this region, Shipman didn’t bother with landscaping, but left the desert to its own devices. Other than a paved driveway, the land around his house remained untouched. As he took in the surroundings, a gust of desert wind whipped up, sending a tumbleweed bounding across their path.

  “Tumbleweeds and a castle,” Maddock said to himself. “One of these things is not like the others.”

  He saw no sign of security cameras, unsurprising considering the remote location, so he felt safe making a closer inspection. He circled the house, peering through the windows, and seeing nothing of interest.

  What did you expect? he thought. You’d peer through a window and see a signed confession lying on the kitchen table?

  He let out a tired sigh. He was going to have to do this Bones-style.

  He wasn’t as skilled a burglar as his friend, but he’d picked up a few things over the years. He discovered that the first-floor doors and windows were alarmed.

  Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. Depending on the type of system, Bones might be able to disarm it, but that wasn’t within Maddock’s skill set. He was banking his hopes on theory that, out here in the middle of nowhere, Shipman wouldn’t bother with alarms above the first floor.

  The faux-castle walls provided ample handholds and toeholds and he made a quick, painful climb to the nearest second-story window. It opened into what looked like a guest bedroom, and as he had suspected, it was not alarmed. He eased the window open and rolled inside. He hit the floor with an awkward thud, sending fresh waves of agony running through him.

  He lay there for a few seconds but had to accept that the pain wasn’t going away any time soon. He got up, muscles complaining, and began his inspection of the house. He started on the first floor, where he found Shipman’s office. Not sure what he was looking for, he riffled through the papers, flipped through the mail, then scanned the shelves for anything that stood out. Nothing. A search of the second floor proved equally fruitless.

  The third floor consisted of a small garret with a sloped ceiling. A shaft of moonlight shone in through an oculus set high in one wall. The room was unfurnished, save for two suits of armor flanking a single bookcase. The books were cheap paperbacks—airport thrillers, mostly. Dan Brown and John Grisham were well represented. Maddock frowned. Why keep your pleasure reads in such an out of the way place, with nowhere to sit? Was he that embarrassed by his own taste in fiction? No, that didn’t make sense.

  And then he realized what was wrong. The room was too small. He pictured the exterior of the house. The top floor, though smaller than the levels below, was larger than this.

  “Which means you must be hiding a secret door,” he said as he took hold of the bookcase and gave it a firm tug. It swiveled open on silent hinges, revealing another, slightly larger room. Maddock stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He took out his Maglite and flicked it on. What he saw shocked him.

  “Holy crap.”

  The room was a shrine to Kirk Striker, the Black Dahlia killer.

  Framed photographs of Striker lined the top shelves of a quartet of bookcases, standing alongside framed newspaper clippings of Elizabeth Short, the so-called Black Dahlia. Maddock had seen photographs of the young woman many times. Her porcelain China doll looks, fair skin, and dark hair were familiar sights to him. In the case of a notorious crime such as this one, it was easy to think of those involved in the abstract. The killers and their victims almost seemed like fictional characters. No, Maddock truly appreciated that Elizabeth Short was more than the pop culture phenomenon that was the Black Dahlia. She had been an actual flesh-and-blood person.

  There were others memorialized here. More victims, Maddock assumed. The lower shelves sagged with the weight of psychiatric textbooks, books on genetics, and a variety of books relating to serial killers in general and the Black Dahlia killer in particular. The desk in the center was heaped with file folders stuffed with papers. Maddock flipped through them. Most covered similar themes to the books on the shelves, but a few stood out.

  One folder contained copies of receipts from a pawn shop in Hollywood. An- other folder was stuffed with copies of articles and handwritten notes related to lost treasures. He tucked both folders inside his jacket and replaced them with a couple from the stack of crime folders so that their absence wouldn’t be noted upon first glance. A stack of books adorned one corner of the desk. Maddock couldn’t take them all so he settled for taking a snapshot so he would at least have the titles to refer back to.

  One thin volume had no printing on the spine or the cover. Maddock immediately recognized it for what it was—an old journal. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellow. He opened it and his eyebrows shot up.

  “You are coming with me,” he said, tucking it in with the folders.

  A wave of fatigue washed over him, and he became even more keenly aware of the pain that pulsed through his body. He sensed he should get a move on. He spared a few moments to take several photographs. Something in the far corner of the room caught his eye. It was a small table topped with a half-melted votive candle and a photograph of Megan Keane. She was an attractive young woman with long, sandy blonde hair and a friendly smile.

  Anger boiled inside him.

  “Shipman, you sick freak,” Maddock said, snapping another photo. “Is this your version of a trophy, or is this a guilt thing?”

  He froze. He heard the sound of someone moving quietly up the stairs. How had he not heard Shipman come home? And where the hell was Bones? Why hadn’t he warned Maddock that Shipman was headed home?

  Bones probably figured you’d be gone by now. You wasted too much time. He looked around but he already knew there was no way out except down the stairs. He ducked down behind the closest bookshelf, his knees protesting. He’d just have to wait until Shipman went to bed and then sneak out. But the footsteps kept coming. The man moved quietly. Maddock could barely hear the soft footfalls. His mind raced. If Shipman was trying to sneak up the stair that meant he suspected someone was there. Maddock drew his Recon knife. If Shipman were unarmed, Maddock was confident that, even in his diminished state, he could easily subdue him. But if the man was armed, things could get dicey. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  The door opened an inch.

  “Maddock? You up here?”

  “Bones.” Relief flooded through him. He sheathed his knife and clicked on his Maglite. A moment later Bones did the same. “What the hell are you doing sneaking in here like that? Where’s Shipman?”

  There was a slight hesitation before Bones spoke. “I lost him.”

  “You couldn’t track a middle-aged writer?”

  “His narrow ass can slip through places that are a tight squeeze for me.”

  “It’s the cheeseburgers,” Maddock said.

  “Screw you. Anyway, he gained too much ground on me and it was too dark to track him, especially with so much rocky terrain that doesn’t take footprints. It’s cool. We can go back in daylight and pick up his trail.” Bones shone his light around the room, taking it all in. And then his eyes went wide as he finally noticed what was inside the room. “What the hell is
all this?”

  Maddock gave him a quick rundown of the observations he’d observed and the items he’d taken. “I have a feeling we’ll find something important in here.” He patted his chest where he’d stuffed the items.

  “This will not remain secret for long,” Bones said. “The police will be all over this, probably the Feds, too. If there’s something to be found we’d better find it now.”

  No sooner had Bones spoken than he held up a hand for silence. He cocked his head to the side, listened intently.

  “Too late. Somebody’s unlocking a door downstairs,” he whispered. “I think we should get the hell out of here.”

  “There’s no way out up here. Come on.” They hurried down to the second floor. Rather, Bones hurried, Maddock hobbled. Just as they reached the second floor landing, they heard Shipman mount the stairs. He gave Bones a rough shove through the nearest doorway. It was the wrong room. This wasn’t the spare bedroom through which he’d entered the house earlier, but one given over to storage. Boxes of books were stacked floor to ceiling on three sides. There was probably a window in the far wall, but there was no way to get to it quickly and quietly. Especially not with Shipman practically on top of them. He and Bones pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the door.

  The footsteps came closer.

  Maddock’s heart raced, all the pain of his injuries forgotten. He remembered his tumble down the hill and suddenly his fingers itched to be around Shipman’s throat. I kind of hope you find us, he thought. Try and kill us. Give us a reason. But Shipman didn’t find them. He continued on up the stairs to his secret room on the third floor. They waited until they heard him close the door, then slipped down to the first floor and out the back door.

  “That was close,” Bones said when they were well away. “A part of me wonders if we should have grabbed him right then and gotten some answers out of him.”

  “We can’t break into somebody’s house, steal from him, apply enhanced interrogation techniques, and expect to get away with it. At least, that’s what I keep reminding myself.”

  Bones shook his head.

  “You know something, Maddock? Sometimes you’re no fun at all.”

  Chapter 23

  ––––––––

  After a quick shower, Maddock made a call to Franzen, who had left them both her work and cell phone numbers. He was taking a calculated risk, given that he and Bones had just broken into Shipman’s home and stolen the man’s property, but the garret with its eerie shrine to Megan Keane, was too important to keep secret. He didn’t feel he had the full measure of Franzen just yet, but his instinct told him she was someone he could reason with. And it was obvious she took the missing girl’s case personally and was driven to solve it. He was confident she’d find a way to get a warrant without blowback to him and Bones.

  Franzen didn’t answer. He left his name and number, then collapsed onto the bed and turned out the lights, but sleep eluded him. His body felt like a giant toothache. Everything throbbed all the way to the bone. He changed positions, tried calming techniques, but nothing worked. The lure of the journal lurked in the back of his mind. What might he find there?

  After twenty minutes he gave up. Already bemoaning tomorrow, he turned on the light and sat up. The journal lay on his bedside table. He picked it up and ran his fingertips across the cover, felt the years held in its dry, cracked leather. He opened the cover to reveal the name written in elegant hand on the first yellowed page.

  Kirk Striker

  The gravity of the moment hit him hard. He held in his hands the personal journal of the Black Dahlia killer. How had he even considered trying to sleep? There was a soft knock and then his door opened a few inches.

  “I saw your light was on and wondered if you’re okay,” Spenser said as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.

  “As good as can be expected.”

  “What are you reading?” She hopped lightly onto the bed and scooted in close.

  “Just some light reading. Kirk Striker’s journal.”

  “Shut up!” She slapped him on his bruised shoulder. “Sorry,” she said absently, her eyes locked on the journal. “It’s legit?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Bones and I broke into Shipman’s house and stole it.” He quickly recounted the details of their impromptu investigation of Shipman. Spenser’s eyes grew wider as he described the odd garret at the top of the house.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered. “The police need to know, don’t they?”

  “I left a message for Franzen. I figure we’ll tell her what we know and see how she wants to handle it. I think what we found is important enough that she won’t get in a twist over a little breaking and entering.”

  “And burglary.” Spenser tapped the book with a red lacquered fingernail.

  Maddock frowned. “I don’t think I’m going to tell her about the journal just yet. I know we haven’t found a shred of evidence to support any lost treasure theories, but I still believe there’s something out there. Shipman wasn’t just researching Striker; he was studying lost treasure. And I think this journal is the key.”

  Spenser nodded. “As soon as the existence of this journal becomes public knowledge, you’ll lose it.” She began counting on her fingers. “Local police, the FBI, criminal profilers, movie producers...” She froze, as if mesmerized by some invisible sight. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Maddock waited but she didn’t finish the thought. “Are you going to let me in on your epiphany?”

  “You don’t need to find buried treasure. You could sell this for an insane amount of money.”

  Maddock shook his head. “I really don’t think so.”

  She made a pouting face. “I wouldn’t do it either. But I’m not wrong. If this is authentic, it’s worth a ton. But, since we won’t be listing it on eBay any time soon, I say we get started reading.” She rested her head against his shoulder and settled in.

  Maddock turned to the first entry.

  It was written in code.

  Neatly aligned rows and columns of numbers and letters covered the first page. And the second. And the third.

  Spenser let out a rueful laugh. “Here I was thinking this would be easy. When will I learn?”

  “You know, I say that all the time.”

  He continued thumbing through the journal. The code switched to something like hieroglyphs with numbers and letters mixed in. Here and there was an entry in what appeared to be written in Morse code.

  They continued paging through. It was all the same—lots of strange-looking codes and symbols. The few Morse code entries were cryptic. The last was particularly odd. Maddock decoded it. “Cluster guardian,” Maddock read aloud.

  “What is that? Some mythical creature that guards the treasure?”

  Maddock slowly closed the journal, turned to stare at her.

  “Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Spenser tilted her head, touched his arm.

  “No. It’s just that my mind went to that same exact place. Great minds, I suppose.”

  “Let’s test that theory.” She took the journal from him, set it aside then leaned in close. “Look me in the eye and tell me what I’m thinking.”

  “That it’s going to take a lot of work to decipher the journal,” he said.

  “Nope, too obvious. That’s strike one.”

  “You’re wondering if he’s already deciphered the journal and has beaten us to the punch.”

  She shook her head. Once again, a stray lock of hair fell across her face. It was almost as if she did it on purpose. Maddock liked it. “Also readily apparent. Strike two.”

  “Don’t let Bones hear you say ‘readily apparent.’ He claims I’m the only human being under the age of seventy to use that phrase.”

  “Quit stalling. You’ve got one more guess.” She was so close he could feel her breath against his lips.

  “What happens if I get to strike th
ree?”

  “You don’t make it to first base, so you definitely won’t score.”

  Even Maddock could recognize an invitation when he heard it. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her lips, which she returned with more intensity. She let out a soft whimper. And then she pulled away.

  “Hold on. That was cheating. You can’t steal first base.”

  “I think I just did.”

  “Fine. Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said, sitting up straight. “Bones wasn’t there for very long before Shipman came home, was he?” When Maddock shook his head, she went on. “So, unless Shipman was just out wandering aimlessly, wherever he was going couldn’t have been far from where Bones left him, and he couldn’t have stayed there very long. If he left tracks, you guys could follow his trail and find out where he was going.”

  Now it was Maddock’s turn to sit up, sending bolts of pain up his spine. “That makes sense,” he grunted.

  “Yes, it does. Didn’t we just discover that you and I think alike?”

  “I thought we played that game and I struck out.”

  “No. You definitely got to base.” Spenser reached across him and turned out the light.

  Chapter 24

  ––––––––

  The sun hung high in the sky when Maddock woke the following morning. He sat up, every joint in his body protesting like a rusty hinge. On the positive side of the ledger, his pain level had gone from stabbing to throbbing and now stood at dull ache. He could live with that. He stretched gingerly, yawned, and sorted through his sleep-clouded memories of the night before. He and Spenser had read through the journal and then...

  “Spenser. The journal.”

  Both were gone.

  Heart racing, he hopped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. It wasn’t that long ago he’d lost a priceless artifact to a woman he trusted, in circumstances very much like this. He remembered how Spenser had speculated about its value.