by Nora Roberts
“Goddamn it,” he muttered but, determined to be cagey, tried for the same happy tone in his call. “Come on, Jaws, you little bastard. Here, boy, you demon from hell.”
He quickened his steps toward the sound of puppy pleasure until he heard the rustling in the brush.
The pup emerged, filthy, and manfully dragging what appeared to be the decaying corpse of a very large bird.
And he’d actually worried a very large bird would get the dog? What a joke.
“Jesus Christ, put that thing down. I mean it.”
Jaws growled playfully, eyes alight, and dragged his find backward.
“Here! Now! Come!”
Jaws responded by hauling the corpse over, sitting and offering it.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Judging the timing, Simon grabbed the dog and booted what was left of the bird back into the brush. Jaws wiggled, struggling for freedom.
“This isn’t a game of fet—Don’t say the f word. On the other hand, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He held the dog aloft. The stench was unspeakable.
“What did you do, roll in it? For God’s sake, why?”
With no other choice, Simon tucked the odorous dog firmly under his arm and, breathing through his teeth, hiked back to the house.
On the way back he considered and dismissed hosing the dog off. No way a hosing would combat the smell—even if he could keep the dog still long enough. He considered a bath, wished he had a galvanized tub—and shackles. An indoor bath gave him visions of a flooded bathroom.
On his porch he managed to take off his boots while Jaws bathed his face in loving, death-smell kisses. He tossed his wallet on a table when he went inside and straight up to the shower.
When he’d closed them both in, Simon stripped down to boxers, ignoring the dog while Jaws attacked jeans and shirt. Then he turned on the spray.
“Deal with it,” Simon suggested when Jaws bashed into the tile, then the glass door in a bid to escape.
Teeth set, Simon picked up the soap.
THEY WERE LATE. Fiona checked the time again, shrugged and continued to fill a pot with pansies and trails of vinca. She’d simply have to train Simon to respect her schedule, but for the moment having the luxury of a bit of gardening satisfied her. Her dogs snoozed nearby, and she had a rocking mix on her iPod.
If her new students didn’t show, she’d get the second planter done, then maybe take her boys for a little hide-and-seek in the woods.
The day, sunny and mild, all blue skies and pretty breezes, was meant to be enjoyed.
She studied her work, fluffed petals, then started the second pot.
She spotted the truck.
“That’s Simon,” she said when her dogs rose. “Simon and Jaws.” And went back to her pansies.
She continued to plant as man and dog got out of the truck, as her dogs greeted them—as man waded through the dogs. And took her time placing the next cell pack of pansies, precisely.
When Simon tapped her shoulder, she pulled out her earbuds. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“We’re probably late.”
“Uh-huh.” She patted dirt.
“There were circumstances.”
“The world’s full of them.”
“We had a large share of the world’s circumstances, but the biggest involved the dead bird.”
“Oh?” Fiona glanced over at the puppy, now engaged in fierce tug-of-war with Bogart. “Did he get a bird?”
“Something else got the bird, days ago from the look—and smell—of it.”
“Ah.” She nodded and, deciding to take pity, pulled off her gloves. “Did he bring it to you?”
“Eventually. After he rolled in it for a while.”
“How’d he handle the bath?”
“We had a shower.”
“Really?” She swallowed back the laugh since he didn’t look inclined to appreciate it. “How’d that work out?”
“After he stopped trying to butt his way through the shower door and eat the soap, okay. Actually, he liked it. We may have found a shaky foot-hold of mutual ground.”
“It’s a start. What did you do with the corpse?”
“The bird?” He stared at her, wondering why the hell she’d care. “I kicked it back in the brush. I had my hands full with the dog.”
“You’d better bag it and dispose of it. Otherwise, he’s going to find it again first chance he gets.”
“Great. Perfect.”
“Smells are a dog’s crack. He did what instinct told him to do.” And the human, she decided, had done just as he should—except call and tell her he’d be late. “Given the circumstances, I’ll give you the full session. Did you do your homework?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yes,” he corrected when Fiona raised an eyebrow. “He’ll sit on command—almost every time. He’ll come on command when he damn well feels like it. Since we were here last, he’s tried or succeeded in eating a TV remote, a pillow, an entire roll of toilet paper, part of a stair tread, most of a bag of barbecue potato chips, two chairs and a mallet. And before you ask, yes, I corrected and replaced. He doesn’t give a damn.”
“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”
He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”
“Bullshit.”
“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”
“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.
“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.
And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.
When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.
“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”
She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.
“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”
“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”
“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.
“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.
She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”
She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”
Simon sat beside her, used the rope to pull the dog in, gave it slack, tugged side to side. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a dog.”
Willing to give some sympathy now, she patted Simon’s knee. “This from a man who takes showers with his puppy?”
“It was necessary.”
“It was clever, efficient and inventive.” And they both smelled of soap and . . . sawdust, she realized. Very nice. “He’ll learn. You’ll both learn. How about the housebreaking?”
“Actually, that’s working.”
“Well, there you go. You’ve both learned how to handle that, and he sits on command.”
“And wanders into the forest to roll in dead bird, eats my universal remote.”
“Simon, you’re such a Pollyanna.”
He sent her a narrow stare and only made her laugh. “You’re making
progress. Work on training him to come, every time you call. Every time. It’s essential. We’ll work on some leash training, then give him a refresher on coming.”
As she rose, she saw the cruiser heading down her lane. “It’s a good time to teach him not to run toward a car—and not to jump on a visitor. Keep him controlled, talk to him.”
She waved and waited for Davey to pull up and get out of the car. “Hi, Davey.”
“Fee. Hi, guys, how’s it going?” He bent to rub black, yellow and brown fur. “Sorry, Fee, I didn’t know you had a lesson going.”
“No problem. This is Simon Doyle and Jaws. Deputy Englewood.”
“Right, you bought the Daubs’ place a few months back. Nice to meet you.” Davey nodded at Simon, then crouched to greet the puppy. “Hey, little fella. I don’t want to interrupt,” he said as he scratched and rubbed the exuberant Jaws. “I can wait until you’re done.”
“It’s okay. Simon, why don’t you get the leash, do a little solo work on heeling? I’ll be right there. Is there a problem, Davey?” she murmured when Simon walked to his truck.
“Why don’t we take a little walk ourselves?”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me. Did something happen? Syl?”
“Syl’s fine, far as I know.” But Davey put a hand on her shoulder, steered her into a walk toward the side of the house. “We got some news today, and the sheriff thought, since we go back, I should come talk to you about it.”
“About what?”
“A woman went missing mid-January back in California. Sacramento area. Went out for a jog one morning and didn’t come back. They found her about a week later in Eldorado National Forest, shallow grave. An anonymous tip gave them the basic direction.”
She swallowed the flutter in her throat and said nothing.
“Ten days ago, another woman went out for a morning run in Eureka, California.”
“Where did they find her?”
“Trinity National Forest. The first woman, she was nineteen. The second was twenty. College students. Outgoing, athletic, single. Both had part-time jobs. The first worked as a bartender, the second in a bookstore. They both were taken down with a stun gun, then bound with nylon rope, gagged with duct tape. Both were strangled with a red scarf left on the body.”
She couldn’t feel the flutters now, not when her body had gone numb. “And tied in a bow.”
“Yeah, and tied in a bow.”
Fiona pressed a hand to her heart, felt it pounding. “Perry’s in prison. He’s still in prison.”
“He’s never getting out, Fee. He’s locked up, locked down.”
“It’s a copycat.”
“It’s more than that.” He reached out, gave her shoulders a rub. “It’s more than that, Fee. There are details the Perry investigation didn’t release, like how Perry took a lock of hair from his victims and wrote a number on the back of their right hand.”
Already the numbness was wearing off. She wanted it back, wanted it to block this sickness roiling in her belly. “He told someone, or one of the investigators did—someone in the crime lab or the medical examiner’s office.”
Davey kept his eyes on hers, his hands on her shoulders. “Has to be. They’re going to track that down.”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Davey. Any of dozens of people could’ve passed that information on. It’s been nearly eight years since . . .”
“I know. I’m sorry, Fee. I want you to know the cops are all over this. We wanted you to be informed, and it’s likely the media’s going to make the connection pretty quick. They might poke at you about it.”
“I can handle the press. Greg’s family?”
“They’re being notified, too. I know this is hard for you, Fee, but I don’t want you to worry. They’ll get him. And as bad as it is, this asshole’s sticking to Perry’s pattern. Young college girls. You’re not twenty anymore.”
“No.” She bore down to keep her voice steady. “But I’m the only one who got away.”
SIMON DIDN’T HAVE TO HEAR the conversation to know something was wrong. Bad news or trouble, maybe both. He couldn’t see why Fiona would want anyone around—especially when the anyone was the next thing to a stranger.
He considered loading the dog back in the truck and taking off. It would be rude, but he didn’t particularly mind rude.
But it also seemed downright cold, and that he did mind.
He’d just wait until the deputy left, let the woman make whatever excuses suited her, then escape. Nobody lost face.
Plus, miracle of miracles, he was actually getting Jaws to heel about thirty percent of the time. Even the pup’s cooperation stemming from having the other dogs stroll along, stop on command, didn’t negate success.
So he could go home flush from that, get a little more work done, then have a beer.
Take the dead bird out of the equation and it added up to a pretty good day.
When the cruiser headed out, he expected Fiona to wander over, make those excuses, then go handle whatever needed handling.
Instead, she stood where she was for several minutes, just staring out at the road. Then she walked back to the porch steps, sat. And sat.
So he’d make the excuses, Simon decided. Easy enough. Just remembered something I have to do. Dog’s coming along, blah, blah, see you.
He crossed toward her, pleased it only took a couple of tugs to have the pup fall in line. And as he approached, he saw she was dead white, and the hands clutched on her knees trembled lightly.
Crap.
With walking casually away no longer an option, he scooped up the puppy before Jaws could try to leap into her lap.
“Bad news,” he said.
“What?”
“The deputy brought bad news. Is Sylvia all right?”
“Yes. It’s not about Sylvia.”
Her dogs, sensing her mood, clustered around her. The big yellow Lab rested his head on her knee.
“Ah . . . we should . . .”
He watched her struggle to pull herself out of whatever hole she’d fallen into.
“We should work on sit and stay.”
“Not today.”
She looked up at him then, but he couldn’t translate what clouded her eyes. Grief ? Fear? Shock?
“No,” she agreed, “not today. Sorry.”
“No problem. I’ll see you next time.”
“Simon.” She drew a breath as he hesitated. “Would you mind . . . Could you stay for a while?”
He wanted to say no—wished he had it in him to say no. Maybe he’d have found it in him if it hadn’t been so obvious it was as hard for her to ask as for him to agree.
“All right.”
“Why don’t you let him run awhile. The big guys’ll watch him. Play,” she said as Simon unclipped the leash. “Stay close. Close,” she repeated, stroking fur. “Watch Jaws, go play.”
They whined a little, and each glanced back at her as they started into the yard.
“They know I’m upset. They’d rather stay until I’m not. You’d rather go.”
He sat beside her. “Yeah. I’m not much good at this kind of thing.”
“Not much good’s better than no good.”
“Okay. I guess you want to tell me the bad news.”
“I guess I do. It’ll get around the island anyway.”
Still, for a few moments she said nothing at all, then seemed to gather herself.
“Several years ago there was a series of abduction murders. Young women, ranging from eighteen to twenty-three. They were all college students, twelve of them over a three-year period. California, Nevada, Oregon, New Mexico, Washington state were either abduction sites or burial sites—or both.”
It rang a bell somewhere, dimly, but he said nothing.
“They were all the same type—not physically, as he crossed races and coloring, but basic body types and all college students, athletic, outdoorsy, outgoing. He’d stalk them for weeks once he’d chosen a target. Sometimes longer.
Meticulous, patient, he’d record their routines, habits, wardrobe, friends, family, schedules. He used a tape recorder and kept a notebook. All of them either jogged or hiked or biked routinely. Habitually.”
She drew another breath and made him think of someone preparing to execute a surface dive in murky water.
“He preferred women who went out alone, early morning or dusk. He approached from the opposite direction—just another jogger, another hiker. And when he closed in, he used a stun gun to take them down. While they were incapacitated, he carried them to his car. He had the trunk lined with plastic so there’d be no trace on the bodies, and no trace of them in the trunk.”
“Thorough,” Simon said, thinking out loud.
“Yes. Very.” She continued briskly, without inflection, like a woman giving a report she knew by rote. “He bound them with nylon cord, gagged them with duct tape, then gave them a mild sedative to keep them under, keep them quiet. He’d drive to a national park. He’d already have the spot picked out. While the search went on for her, in the area she’d been abducted, he was hours away, forcing this groggy, terrified woman to walk, through the dark, off the trail.”
Now her voice hitched, a quick tremble as she linked her fingers together in her lap and stared straight ahead. “He dug the grave first—not too deep. He wanted them to be found. He liked them to watch him dig so he tied them to a tree. They couldn’t beg, couldn’t even ask him why because he kept them gagged the entire time. He didn’t rape them or torture them, physically. Or beat them or mutilate them. He just took out the red scarf and, while they were bound and gagged, unable to defend themselves, strangled them. He tied it in a bow when he was finished, and buried them.”
“The Red Scarf Killer. That’s what the press called him,” Simon commented. “I remember this. They caught him after he shot some cop.”
“Greg Norwood. The cop was Greg Norwood, and his dog, his K-9 partner, Kong.”
The words throbbed in the air between them like an open wound.
“You knew him.”
“Perry laid in wait for them. Greg had a place, a nice little weekend place near Lake Sammamish. He liked to take Kong there, work on his training. Once a month, just the two of them. Boy-bonding, he called it.”