Shadow Moon

by Alexandra Sokoloff

His upstairs office is papered in posters and flyers from two decades of shows: on the walls, on the ceiling. The artwork is arresting, and many of the names recognizable to her. She takes it all in only briefly before she turns to him with her purpose.

  “I understand that you knew a victim of the Street Hunter. One who survived.”

  Kennedy gives her a brief, startled look. “She… yes. It really was a miracle.”

  The next part Singh offers casually, as if this is information he has told her himself. “And it was you and your friend Mia who found Ms. Hughes after the attack?”

  “Yes, we—” He stops, realizing what he has just admitted even as Singh is reaching for the police sketch of Cara.

  Finally he says, “I don’t think I’m going to answer that.”

  His hesitation tells all. Singh knows there is no need to produce the sketch of Cara again. Both of them know of whom they are speaking. She moves on.

  “Did Brandi talk to you about who attacked her?”

  “She didn’t want to and I didn’t want to press her.” His face tightens. “I know it was Barker, though. That came out later after she went to the police and identified him in a lineup.”

  “Did Brandi talk to your mutual friend about it?”

  The question startles him, enough so that he responds. “Not that I know of.”

  “But she may have.”

  Singh is almost certain that Roarke was correct, that it was John Lombard who attacked Brandi, not the Street Hunter. She is almost certain that Cara killed Lombard. And perhaps… Brandi never mentioned Lombard so that his murder would be less likely to be discovered.

  She can tell from the distant focus in his face that Kennedy is thinking of a specific incident. “She could have,” he says finally. “When we visited Brandi at the hospital…” He trails off, then says abruptly, “You know Mia, don’t you? Is she all right?”

  Singh hesitates. Will Kennedy’s life be improved by knowing the truth about this woman who clearly meant something to him? She thinks not. So she says nothing. The pieces are there for him to put together, should he choose to do so.

  “Is Brandi all right?” she asks instead.

  “Brandi’s fine.”

  More than fine, as it turns out.

  Singh is able to see her first thing the next morning, because of the job that she does, as an anchor on an early morning local TV talk show. When Singh calls the station, she is told she can see Brandi after the broadcast; the show finishes its live filming at eight am.

  She goes not because it will change anything, or help anyone, but because of the allure of the mystery. Perhaps because she needs some real world, tangible confirmation of the tale she is weaving in her own head. She needs to know.

  A production assistant leads her to a green room, where Brandi Hughes sits on a sofa in front of a low table with a tray of coffee and pastries.

  The street waif Singh has been picturing has grown into an elegant, sophisticated woman, with sharply cut hair, sharper cheekbones, and a commanding style. She indicates an armchair with a manicured hand, and looks Singh over so frankly Singh feels a frisson of sensuality.

  “So that doll Jamie Kennedy sent you.” Brandi’s voice is a smoky purr. “That’s a flash from the past. What can I do for you, my love?”

  “I am Special Agent Singh of the San Francisco FBI.”

  Brandi arches an eyebrow, leans back and crosses exquisite legs. “I surrender.”

  Singh half-smiles. “I have only a few questions, if I may. They concern Robert Jonah Barker.”

  Brandi’s face shadows. “That is ancient history.” She is agitated, as of course one would be. She puts a hand out, reaching for the table, and stops mid-reach. Singh has seen it before: a gesture that smokers make before remembering the smoking ban.

  “Damn,” she murmurs.

  But is that agitation also a show?

  Singh leans forward. “Barker is long dead. The case is closed. There is nothing whatsoever official about my interest, only my personal need to know.” Brandi sits silent, waiting, so Singh continues. “Are you quite sure that it was Barker who attacked you?”

  Brandi laughs. “Sugar, I like attention as much as the next girl. Maybe a tad bit more. But that doesn’t extend to breaking my own ribs to play like I’m the one surviving victim of a serial killer.”

  “I have no doubt the attack was real,” Singh says quietly. “I am deeply sorry for the trauma you endured. It is the identification of your attacker I have questions about. Is it not possible… that you were wrong?”

  To her credit, there is no flicker of recognition on Brandi’s face. “Oh, I know the man who attacked me.”

  Singh does not relent. “I believe that man was not Barker. Could it instead have been a monger named John Lombard?”

  Brandi looks at her steadily, unsmiling. “Why would I lie?”

  “Perhaps… to protect a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “A friend who went after your real attacker.” Singh places the police sketch of Cara on the coffee table in front of them. Brandi stares down at it.

  “Why, isn’t that the woman who’s been reported to have killed so very many men across the U.S.?” Her eyes slide up to meet Singh’s. “Very bad men, if I’m not mistaken. Surely you don’t think I know her?”

  Now it is Singh who sits, silent, waiting.

  “Well, don’t I wish!” Brandi laughs. “That would be a newswoman’s dream, to say the least. No, alas. I’ve never had the pleasure.” Her voice hardens. “But good on her.”

  She pushes the sketch back to Singh. “Are you hunting her?”

  Her tone is admirably casual.

  “That is not my job,” Singh answers evenly.

  The two women sit across from each other, silent, unmoving. After a moment Singh puts the sketch back in her bag and stands. “I thank you for your time. I am happy to see life has turned out so well for you.”

  Brandi stands as well, extending a hand to shake. “It’s been a pleasure.” She meets Singh’s eyes, before looking away. “If you ever do find her, give me a call. I would kill for that interview.”

  Chapter 60

  Portland - present

  Singh

  Singh drives from the studio to Agent Snyder’s house under black skies and pelting rain. The radio is full of ominous warnings about flash flooding in several counties.

  Snyder’s study seems a complete haven by comparison. There is a fire in the fireplace and Singh sinks gratefully into one of the tall armchairs, feeling her lack of sleep like an undertow as she fills Agent Snyder in on her talk with Brandi Hughes.

  Agent Snyder’s eyes are clear this morning, and he is sharply attentive. “You believe Brandi told Cara about her attacker, and Cara killed him. Meaning Lombard.”

  “And Brandi identified Barker, the Street Hunter, as her attacker in order to protect Cara. Brandi would never say it aloud, but…” she remembers the look in Brandi’s eyes. Satisfaction. Amusement. “It is my strong guess,” she finishes. “I needed to confirm because there is still the question of the intruder who has been after your files.”

  “It seems we can eliminate Lombard,” Snyder says wryly.

  “Agreed,” Singh says. “So now we must consider the Wolf.” Before he can interrupt, she continues. “Yes, it is only a theory, but the theory seems more than plausible to me. We need to examine the case of the murdered boy in Idaho.”

  “Montana,” he murmurs.

  She is certain he had said Idaho, but for the moment she does not press him. She leans forward intently. “You and ASAC Roarke went up in January to investigate reports of a murder of a young boy. And your notes on that case are now missing.”

  Agent Snyder pauses at some length before he speaks. He seems to be consolidating his thoughts. “I was advising local law enforcement on the investigation. But yes. On the surface, it appeared a completely different case. The victim was a much younger boy who had been held for several days and horrifica
lly abused before he was killed. We know that statistically killers of teens are not likely to suddenly start hunting much younger children. But—the boy had been abducted during a family trip to Glacier National Park in the fall.”

  The mention of the national park gives Singh a start. She has been acutely interested in national parks during her chronicling of Cara’s story. But more than that…

  “Glacier is a geothermal region,” she says. “You were thinking of the mineral deposits found on Young John Doe’s body. And the gray wolf fur.”

  He nods to her gravely. “Yes. Exactly. Gray wolves are indigenous to the region. And the nature of the violence done to this boy… the MO was similar to the attack on Young John Doe. There was no way not to think of the Wolf. So I asked Matthew to come up to the crime scene with me.” He stops, shakes his head. “’Ask’ is perhaps not the correct word. To say he was reluctant would be putting it mildly. I called in some chips.”

  Chapter 61

  Spokane, Washington - three months ago

  Roarke and Snyder

  Roarke felt the mistake of it as soon as his plane began the descent. What he saw beneath him was a city spread over a high plain, ringed by mountains. And snow. Snowy trees, snowy streets, snowy buildings, an ice-white river.

  Spokane. The eastern edge of Washington, where the desert meets the Rockies.

  Snyder’s crime scene was near Kellogg, in the Idaho panhandle, alongside the Coeur d’Alene National Forest. Kellogg would be a seventy-mile drive, over the border into Idaho, but Spokane was the closest major airport.

  Roarke’s first stop was to pick up a rental vehicle.

  “Make it an ATV,” Snyder had warned him. “Get chains.”

  That should have been Roarke’s clue. That and the fact that the panhandle was practically Canada. But as a native Californian, Roarke thought of snow only in the abstract, and as a necessary evil to be endured during ski season. Luckily there was no actual snow falling during his drive, though the white stuff was banked along the highway and frosting the trees. It looked damned cold out there.

  But the drive on I-90 was spectacular, there was no denying that. He passed through the town of Coeur d’Alene, which according to billboards had a staggering fifty-five lakes, and into the Silver Valley of Shoshone County. Which was almost solid ice.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  But he knew.

  He’d been hiding out in Pismo Beach, with no intention of doing law enforcement work for the foreseeable future, if ever again. But Snyder wasn’t a psychological profiler for nothing. He knew exactly where Roarke’s pressure points were, and he’d hit every one of them in his phone call.

  “Based on missing persons reports we may be able to attribute at least one other child to this killer. The first disappearance was in Yellowstone, the second in Glacier National Park. Aaron Light’s body was found only three weeks ago, and the level of damage done to the boy was extreme. It’s almost certain that the killer has killed before.”

  Roarke’s body and his mind flinched at once. I can’t do this, he thought. His decision- making, his sense of judgment, his professionalism, had been completely shattered by the Lindstrom case, and his unforgiveable lapse with Cara herself.

  Snyder had continued, quietly relentless. “There are no FBI field offices in Idaho or Montana. I can’t help thinking that our unsub knows that. That fact, and the sheer acreage of those national forests makes these two states a perfect dumping ground. Add to that this region’s isolationist tendencies… it’s good hunting ground for a predator.”

  “And why do you think you need me?” Roarke asked.

  “Fresh eyes,” Snyder said instantly. “I’m not sure I’m thinking entirely clearly anymore.”

  I know the feeling, Roarke thought at him.

  Snyder waited through the silence, finally spoke. “I understand your duties have become conflicting, of late.”

  He meant Cara. Snyder knew, or guessed, Roarke’s ambivalence about chasing her, about jailing her. Snyder in fact had refused to help Roarke on the last bit of his search because he considered Cara’s victims a far lower priority than the victims in his own case.

  “But there’s a difference between duties and the job, the work that you’re meant to do. You can leave the duties for now and do your job. I need you on this, Matthew.”

  Before Roarke could demur, Snyder continued seamlessly. “Of course I won’t mention all the time I’ve put into your Huntress investigation.”

  Roarke felt a wave of anger, and then amusement. Not only was Snyder right, he wasn’t above some emotional extortion. “Of course you won’t,” he said dryly.

  In the end, Roarke had promised him three days.

  So here he was, winding the rental vehicle through the snowy wilderness. And despite his reluctance, despite his distaste for winter weather, he felt the familiar surge: the excitement of the hunt. And a strange relief. Whatever else was in store for him here, he knew that Cara Lindstrom would be nowhere near where he was going. That alone might save him—

  He applied the brake at a sudden, startling vision.

  A thirteen-foot tall coal miner with glowing headlamp loomed up through the snowy trees, defiantly brandishing his rock drill skyward. A turnoff indicated the Sunshine Mine Memorial, a tribute to the victims of one of the worst mining disasters in US history.

  Right, Roarke thought. Welcome to Idaho.

  Snyder’s hotel was a lodge on one of the myriad lakes, and the view from the front deck, looking out over the water, was impressive, if icy. Snyder had booked Roarke into a room. After a quick shower and a change to extra layers of clothes, he met his former mentor in the lobby, where antique mining equipment and hunting traps and animal head trophies made up the décor.

  Snyder was easy to spot, encased in a high-tech parka, the kind of coat Roarke should have brought. The men shook hands and clasped shoulders warmly. As Snyder pulled back, though he said nothing, he gave Roarke a probing look that Roarke didn’t like at all. He wondered if what was going on inside him was showing on his face, in his body.

  Snyder himself showed a certain haggardness, a worrisome fragility. A long case, unsolved, took an exponential toll as the days went on: the frustration of dealing with local law enforcement, the psychological murkiness, and above all, the fear for the next victim. But Snyder wasted no time. “I want to take you out to the kill site, before we lose the light.”

  Roarke felt a bolt of adrenaline, simultaneous anticipation and unease. He followed Snyder out the door.

  Outside the hotel, the cold hit them and Roarke shivered. Snyder gave him a withering look. “You and your California blood.”

  He zapped open the trunk of his ATV and pulled out an extra Arctic-rated parka, handed it over silently.

  Roarke took it, muttered, “I’m getting too old for this.” He halfway meant it.

  Inside the vehicle was warmer. While Roarke drove, Snyder filled in the details of the case. The kill site was a hunting camp in a forest outside the border of the Coeur d’Alene National Forest.

  “The boy was abducted from Montana. His body was found in the woods near a hunting cabin here,” he said. “His blood was found in the cabin. The savagery of the killing bumped the case up to priority child sexual homicide right away.”

  Roarke felt a drop in his stomach. The violation of children was the worst of the worst. “But this hasn’t been publicized?”

  Snyder shook his head. “At first because Aaron Light wasn’t seen being abducted. And he’s from a complex family situation.”

  “Complex” never meant anything good.

  “Turn here,” Snyder said.

  Snyder directed him off the main road to a trail head, where they parked the ATV. Outside the vehicle, Snyder went around to the back and pulled snowshoes out of the trunk. Roarke stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Unfortunately not. It’s a miracle the boy’s body was found before the spring thaw. Of course the killer was countin
g on that.”

  There was no more talking. The agents strapped the shoes on and set out through the forest. The snow was deep and showshoeing was a grueling slog. Roarke was sweating and both hot and freezing by the time they hiked between the last trees into the clearing of the camp. At which point he was seriously worried about Snyder. The older man was in good shape, but Roarke’s own legs were shaking from exertion.

  Any thought of his own discomfort dissipated as he surveyed the clearing.

  It may have been only a mile from the road, but it felt like the end of the earth. Roarke swallowed against the tightening in his throat. It was a terrible, desolate place to die.

  The shadows were already lengthening, the sun sinking in the sky, and now that they had stopped moving, the air had a chilling, lethal bite.

  Snyder surveyed the area. “Three months ago there wouldn’t have been snow, but it would have been close. That’s undoubtedly why the unsub felt safe to leave the body in a relatively shallow grave. It wouldn’t have been found at all, or not anywhere as soon as it was, except that animals sniffed it out, and the first big snow was late.”

  They removed their snowshoes by the side of the hunting cabin and entered. It was a dismal little wreck, apparently open for the use of any sportsman who wanted shelter.

  Snyder looked around at the dark, dank, walls. He rummaged in his coat and pulled out the autopsy report. Roarke used his phone light to scan through. It was heartbreaking reading. Sodomy, lashing, bones broken while the victim was still alive. And the boy had been burned, with some implement.

  “There was enough flesh left on the bones to get a tox reading. The free histamine levels were off the charts. He kept the boy for days.”

  Roarke listened to the list of injuries. It was all so sickeningly familiar. The same thing they saw over and over. Dominionism. Men who thought they had some right to own other people. Women, children, other men. Hunters who thought they had the right to savage other living things.

  A name came to him, unbidden.

  The Wolf.

  Snyder looked around the cabin. “Crime scene investigators found a significant quantity of the boy’s blood here. And there’s quite a bit of DNA evidence. Unfortunately it’s from dozens of people, and animals as well. Possibly hundreds.” He shook his head. “And I can’t help thinking the unsub knew that was the case. He’s confident. Arrogant.”