“This is no ordinary story for you. You have a personal stake. Is it your friend Emma?” Her dedication to this cause implied unexpected depths.
She lifted her gaze toward the stars. “She was one of the victims. Emma was younger than me, a senior at Colby College, but she and her mom Rissa were my best friends. After a weekend at home, Rissa took Emma to the bus to return to college.
“We never saw Emma again. That was October. In April, loggers found her body near Rangeley Lake. Tonight I scattered some of her ashes in Gomagash Lake.” Her voice broke.
He started to wrap his arms around her, to offer sympathy, but she’d misconstrue his intentions. Hell, no, she wouldn’t, but he’d keep his hands off anyway. “So probing her death was what led to uncovering the other murders?”
“Yes, there was something too ritualistic about the way he left her body. I couldn’t leave the story alone.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “Ironic, isn’t it? That perverted bastard commits his vicious crimes in the woods, and here I am smack in his playground.”
“He’s not here. You’ll be all right. My tent’s next to yours.” He winked at her and slid a hand around the back of her neck. Her skin was soft, smooth. Tempting. “If you have nightmares, call me. I’ll be over before you can yell twice.”
That coaxed a wider smile out of her. “That would be a nightmare.” She sidestepped his caress, unzipped her tent and crawled in. “Good night.”
He frowned at the star-filled sky.
“...stabbed with a big hunting knife like—"
“Like mine,” he whispered. Even though he’d stopped Annie, everyone knew what she’d been about to say. No need to give the thought power by uttering the words.
No way his knife going missing had anything to do with the Hunter. More likely losing it was an omen of his incompetence at guiding. That thought sent a sharp pang to his gut, as if by that very knife.
EIGHT
Thursday
Waterville
Rissa leaned against her Saab to wait for the detective to arrive. A laughing, jabbering knot of basketball campers jostled and jogged their way across the lawn. A few older teens, Colby student employees on break, sprawled in the sun.
As always on this campus, memories crowded into her mind. Memories of Emma.
She’d come home for the weekend on the bus. Had slept and eaten and caught up with her friends and her mother and Annie. On Sunday evening, Rissa had left her waiting for the Trailways bus at the Portland station.
It was the last time she saw Emma alive.
Tears burned and her shoulders drooped. She clutched her key ring with the plastic-encased snapshot. Already her daughter’s image was fading from memory. She wouldn’t allow it to leave her.
Her daughter was the only vestige of her affair with Roger. Roger had dodged out of town as soon as Rissa told him of her pregnancy. He’d vanished as completely as Emma.
Emma. The best of her. Without scholarship money, Emma could never have afforded even the state university. Rissa’s job as rec director in two nursing homes barely paid the normal bills. But, ambitious as well as academically talented, Emma surpassed all expectations and won every scholarship going. They covered her semesters at this prestigious private college. To pay for a laptop, she worked at the campus bookstore. Her adventurous side went for rock climbing and white-water kayaking. Emma aced all her science courses and planned on graduate school, to study medical research.
Emma, who had given her mother many reasons to be proud and never more than a fleeting reason to worry.
Emma was dead.
Rissa would do anything in her power to find her killer.
***
Justin Wylde gritted his teeth as he took the I-95 Exit 33 into Waterville. Why the hell couldn’t the lieutenant have sent another detective? Why not Bess Peters? She’d done as much on this case as he had. Shit. He knew why. Bess was up to her hairline with the investigation of state-wide business travelers.
He’d liked Rissa Cantrell at first. Annie even dragged him to a cookout at her house. But since her daughter’s death, Rissa’d become so obsessed with finding the killer that the cops tripped over her at every turn. A few months ago, Justin had to persuade the bus station manager in Portland not to file a complaint against her for bugging the employees about loiterers. Finally Rissa ceased harassing them and concentrated on the college.
Months. Too long for memories to be accurate about a nebulous man. Justin was headed to another damned dead end. Another wasted morning chasing down a cold trail. Probably make him late to the meeting he’d set up for Tavani to lay out his profile. Dammit to hell.
The two-lane road curved to the right past a murky-looking pond. He made another right into an even narrower lane that wound past Roberts Hall, which housed the psychology department and the college bookstore. When this case first began he’d bought his niece a stuffed Colby mule there.
Colby was the quintessential New England private college with green quads and a Colonial-style library with a clock tower. Old brick buildings and old money. New high-tech-equipped buildings and new fat endowments. He hated dirtying its lofty atmosphere with the filth and fear of this case.
Finally he rolled into the cul-de-sac and the sprawl of dormitories where the summer employees stayed, among them the potential witnesses.
When he made the last turn, he saw her.
Rissa was watching some kids throw a Frisbee for a bandanna-bedecked border collie. Even from a distance, she looked sad and wistful. Not beautiful, but dramatic and striking, with her dark braid shot with a white streak from the left temple. Since the tragedy, the grief in her eyes had amplified the vivid effect. She looked thinner. Her green sundress was probably supposed to fit her hips, but it hung on her like a sack.
She spotted him when he slammed his car door. “Justin.” It was more a statement of recognition than a greeting. Her gaze flickered over his Bugs tie, but she made no comment.
The cartoon theme was supposed to charm nervous victims or witnesses—like two college coeds—and put bad guys off guard. Besides, he just liked cartoons.
“Rissa.” He slid his sunglasses on top his head. “Seems like you found something at last.”
Her mouth thinned at the sarcasm he couldn’t prevent creeping into his tone. “I may have, at that. How’s Annie doing on her canoe trip?”
Pleasantries first? To bridge the awkwardness and formality. He could do that. He loosened his tie. “I guess she’s fine. She had enough gear for a month. Tried to raise them on the radio, but no luck.”
“Too far into the wilderness?” Her forehead crinkled.
“Maybe. Or the guide just doesn’t have his radio on.” Unease kinked a small knot in his gut. Given Annie’s propensity for disasters with Mother Nature, he’d contact the Gomagash Wilderness caretaker later. Find out if he’d seen them. He wasn’t concerned... yet. No reason to worry this woman. “I don’t understand why she wanted to go, but she’ll have a tale to tell.”
“Something about profiling the... Hunter.” Rissa motioned for him to walk with her to the dorms. Back to business. “The girls are waiting for us.”
He glanced down at her anxious face. “It’s against policy for you to be present during my interviews.”
“Oh, but they asked me to stay. Breanna in particular was nervous about the questioning. She’s afraid she can’t give a good description of the man.”
“That incident happened months ago.” He scratched the back of his head. Campus security hadn’t seen a van back then and sure as hell wouldn’t remember anything now. “I wonder why they happened to remember at this particular time.”
“Caitlin said she saw a similar van recently. That triggered her memory.”
“So she called you. Why not the cops?”
“She didn’t call me. I got it out of her when I came by yesterday. She didn’t want any more involvement, but I—”
“Forced the issue.” He slid the sunglasses down again, deliber
ately angled so the sun reflected off the mirrored lenses. “You certain you didn’t press her so she made up something just to throw you a bone.”
“You presume too much, Detective Wylde.” Her wide blue eyes glistened, but not from the glare. She fiddled with a small plastic frame attached to her keychain. The frame contained a snapshot of her daughter. Her talisman? “The girls didn’t make this up. I’m sure they didn’t.”
Now he felt like he’d kicked a puppy. Shit. He cupped her elbow. Her bones felt fragile as glass. “Come on. You can keep one girl company while I talk to the other. We’ll see where this leads.”
***
Northern Maine woods
At noon, Annie stumbled out of the woods behind Sam and Carl. The muscles in her legs screamed, her lungs burned and anvils filled her sneakers. Three times a week at the gym wasn’t the conditioner she’d thought. Legs trembling, she slid down an embankment to the lake’s edge. Her obit would read Bushwhack Kills Reporter.
She collapsed onto a rock and shrugged off her daypack. The sunscreen and insect repellant cancelled each other out, and welts punctuated her sunburn. Where the sun and mosquitoes had missed, her skin crawled from the glue of lotions and sweat. The brisk breeze off the lake cooled her overheated skin. She sighed with relief.
Water, she needed water. If she could only lift her arms to find the bottle. They’d reached a cove, but where were the others? “We’re lost, aren’t we?”
“Princess, how can we be lost?” Sam wore another wild shirt, this one plastered with piratical fish. Dammit, he didn’t even look tired. And she was too beat to protest her royalty. He passed her his canteen, then pointed across the lake. “You can see our camp right over there.”
Carl took a long pull from his water bottle. Sweat poured down his ruddy features. “Are y’all sure you followed those compass numbers?”
“I’ll check.” Annie scooped her notes from a pocket.
“You do that while I scout around the shore.” Popping a Fig Newton into his mouth, Sam set off to the north.
“All that work and we’re at the wrong damned cove.” Carl mopped his forehead.
“Work, was it? You sure seemed to enjoy yourself.” Struggling and failing to keep anger and frustration from coloring her voice, Annie peered at her notes. Something about the numbers bothered her, but her tuckered brain wouldn’t work. When he didn’t respond, she opted for a change of topic. “What kind of building does your company do?”
Carl lowered himself to sit on a low boulder. “A-ah, that’s better. New construction mostly.”
“Houses? Developments? Offices?”
“Mostly houses. A few office buildings.” He stared out at the water in silence.
She cocked her head. Asking about his business wasn’t opening him up. Most self-important guys like Carl would jump at the chance to boast. “I might do a feature on manufactured housing. What do you think of that trend?”
His mouth twisted in a sneer. “Piece of shit Clorox bottle on concrete. Those damned glorified trailers are a blight on the industry.”
If only she had her recorder. “Shoddy construction?”
“That’s it. On the plus side, when they collapse in a few years, us real carpenters’ll have more work.” He stood and tucked his shirt. “Sam’s not back yet. I’ll go check out the other direction.” He adjusted his sunglasses.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to separate?” She mopped the gouge on her shin with a wet-wipe.
He showed her his teeth. “Honey, we’re on an island. No problemo.”
She waved Carl off. All she wanted to do was jump in the lake—fully clothed. Instead, she found solace in a granola bar.
That morning, she’d woken early. During her restless night, she’d tossed and turned on the air mattress, startling at every noise—sleepy chirps, minute skitterings, distant hoots. Then she’d climbed out of the tent to find Sam making coffee. He’d acted groggier than she.
After scrambled eggs and bagels toasted over the fire, Sam announced the bushwhack. “Some call it orienteering, but if you’re beating a trail through the woods—”
“Bushwhack’s a more accurate term,” Carl finished for him. “Sounds great. Let’s go, y’all.”
Not that simple.
First they practiced reading topographical maps. With small plastic compasses, they found locations on the map and sighted some actual landmarks around them.
“This is kid stuff, Kincaid.” Carl waved his compass. “Let’s just get to the hike.”
“You won’t think it’s kid stuff if it keeps you from getting lost.” Ray’s penetrating stare from beneath his prominent brow added weight to his words.
Carl subsided, grumbling.
Next they paced off distances and times along the beach. Finally, they planned their routes.
Annie, Carl, and Sam had to hike the length of the small island to a selected cove. As navigator, Annie plotted out their landmarks and directions on the map and wrote them on a slip of paper. Ray, Nora, and Frank had to paddle a canoe around the island to the same cove.
It seemed simple, but they didn’t reckon on Mother Nature’s sense of humor. After all the other tricks the old dame had played on Annie, she should’ve known.
The trek that Sam predicted would take an hour dragged into three because blow-downs, rocks, and saplings created a maze. Climbing over deadfall spiked with broken branches and pushing through underbrush provoked her to snipe at Sam—when she could catch her breath. Sam teased her at first, but as the hike dragged on, his humor dragged with it.
The only one overtly enjoying the challenge had been Carl, who’d bounded over the barriers like a kid.
The clatter of pebbles from both sides announced that Sam and Carl were returning from reconnaissance.
Sam hated seeing Annie so exhausted, too beat to zing him. Too beat to object to the nickname princess. Her mascara smudged under her eyes, giving her a tired-raccoon expression. Even her ponytail sagged.
The damn island had in fact forced them to whack the bush. And the canoe party had tacked in the rising wind while they searched for the right cove. Everyone was tired, but seeing her like that triggered unwanted protective feelings.
Sparring with her kept him from dwelling on whether he could make a go of guiding. But anything more than kidding around was out of the question. After the accident, the hash he’d made of his attempt at a new career meant he couldn’t afford to screw up again. Swallowing a string of juicy words, he closed the distance between them.
“Nothing this way.” Carl mopped his forehead with a paper towel. “Can’t even get around. Too steep.”
“I found ‘em.” Sam pointed the direction he’d come from. “That way about a hundred yards.”
He’d screwed up the bushwhack. How, he wasn’t sure. He’d work out the problem later with the topo map. Avoiding the censure in Carl’s eyes and the exhaustion in Annie’s, he led them off.
When the party finally limped into camp in mid-afternoon, it was time to pack up and canoe to the next campsite.
“This won’t take long,” Nora called to Sam. She unzipped her tent flap and crawled inside. “I just have to gather up my duffel and sleeping bags.”
“After this morning, I’d like nothing better than curling up in my sleeping bag.” Annie reached for the tent zipper, on the other side of Sam’s tent site. Once inside, she screeched like a dying rabbit.
“What’s the matter?” he had to ask.
“Nothing,” came her subdued voice. “I just looked in the mirror. Now I really should curl up. And hide.”
Ah, the horror makeup. Best to say nothing. He was in the habit of packing up his duffel and tent first thing in the morning, so had only a neat pile to collect. He hoisted his bagged tent and other gear.
He was trudging toward the shore when Nora screamed.
She scrambled back out of her tent. She flailed her arms at a dark, buzzing cloud around her head. “Hornets!”
NINE
At one-fifteen, Justin slid into his seat at the command post conference table. Lieutenant Vernon Watson nodded curtly to him before continuing with his pep talk.
Justin took the opportunity to catch his breath and drink the coffee he’d snagged at Dunkin Donuts on the way in. His lunch. Again. He itched to lay out what he learned in Waterville to Tavani and Watson. Would the stranger in the dark van jibe with Tavani’s conclusions?
The girls Caitlin and Breanna had begun hesitantly, but the description they gave him seemed real. He interviewed them separately. Neither was too exact or too reluctant.
That week in October, they noticed a black minivan parked in the evenings near their West Quad dorm. They got a good look at its driver when he parked beneath the streetlight. Baseball cap, wide face contorted into a perpetual scowl. As for age, Breanna said, “Old, as old as you.” When he told Rissa later, that remark had coaxed a smile even from her.
Later he would set them up for a session with the police sketch artist.
Detectives from the Portland and Bangor Police Departments and from sheriffs’ offices in three counties joined Justin and other state police detectives to hear Special Agent Tavani’s profile of the Hunter.
Detective Bess Peters nodded to him. Peters’s grim determination to get this killer reminded him of his sister. Having a profile would only deepen her resolve.
Justin surveyed the rest of the faces. Skeptical and suspicious all around. Most cops welcomed high-tech advances, but some considered profiling to be nothing less than voodoo.
On the portable display board, colored flags dotted a map of Maine and New Hampshire. Green for abductions in North Conway, New Hampshire, Fryeburg, Millinocket, Southwest Harbor, and Portland. Red for locations of the bodies in the White Mountains of NH, in the woods near Rangeley in western Maine, and north in Baxter State Park. Blue for two more women who had disappeared, but because no bodies had been found, the police hadn’t tied them to the Hunter.
Over the air conditioner’s hum, Tavani thanked Watson and the others for inviting the Bureau to assist them in stopping the Hunter. “Profiling is not magic.”
Killer Romances Page 262