Silent victim s-2

by C. E. Lawrence

  "Why don't you stay here and be lookout?" Butts told Diesel as he and Lee started up the dirt driveway.

  Lee was sorry leave him behind-if there was a struggle, the powerful Diesel would be more useful than either the pudgy little detective or himself. But they were in delicate legal territory; he and Butts were employees of the NYPD, and Diesel wasn't.

  The house was an 1860s farmhouse, and like many others in the area, it had been modernized, with wings added on over the years. The property was well maintained, with a vegetable garden out back and a rose trellis over an old well that looked as if it was still in use. A fresh coat of white paint on the porch gave the place a cheery, inviting look-though their arrival would be anything but welcome.

  On one of the porch columns, next to the front steps, was a sculpture of a Green Man. It was different from both the one at Perkins's house and the one Ana Watkins owned. Made of plaster, it was larger and even more fierce-looking, and a few actual leaves and twigs had been shoved behind it, so that it looked like they were growing out of its head. Lee tugged on the detective's sleeve and pointed to it. Butts turned to look, nodded, then drew his revolver and mounted the porch steps, which creaked from age and damp weather.

  The front door was open from the inside; only the screen door stood between them and the front hallway. He strode to the front door and yanked the rope attached to the clanger on the old-fashioned dinner bell hanging next to the front door. Its hollow report sent a chill through Lee's body. Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

  "Police-open up!" Butts called out, holding his gun close to his body, the barrel pointing upward. There was no answer. Peering through the screen door, Lee could see no movement inside the house. He strained to hear something-anything-but there was no furtive shuffling, no scurrying footsteps of a fugitive on the lam.

  "Police! If you're in there, open up!" Butts called again, but he was met once again with silence. He looked at Lee and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "No warrant-we're on shaky ground here. I don't see a judge buyin' probable cause. I think we're stuck."

  They stood contemplating their options as a swarm of gnats lazily circled the far end of the porch. A gentle breeze brought the scent of honeysuckle wafting in from the garden, mixed with the tart green smell of tomato vines and geraniums. In the woods, cicadas began their metallic descending scale, signaling the end of summer.

  A faint sound from within the house broke the stillness. It was a gentle rustling, as though a mouse or some other small animal was trying to burrow into a nest and hide. It seemed to come from the other end of the front hall. Lee pressed his face against the screen door and peered down the dark corridor.

  "Hey, be careful!" Butts whispered fiercely behind him, but Lee remained where he was, trying to make out the dim figure advancing down the hall toward them. His instincts told him the person, whoever it was, held no threat for them.

  "Hello?" he called. The form stopped moving, then crumpled to the floor. He looked at Butts, but the detective's hand was already on the screen doorknob.

  "Now we got probable cause," the detective said, pushing the door open.

  Lee followed Butts into the house. They reached the end of the hall in three or four steps. In front of them was the emaciated figure of a man. He had collapsed onto the floor next to the stairs and was clutching at the banister, trying to heave his wasted body to his feet. With his other hand he clutched wildly at the air, as though trying to reach out for their assistance. He sawed the air frantically, like a broken antenna trying to find a signal.

  They reached down and gently helped him to his feet, though the spindly legs appeared unable to support the weight of even his meager body. One on either side of him, they helped him to a chair, setting him down gingerly. He looked elderly, perhaps seventy or so, though it was hard to tell; in his condition, he could have been twenty years younger. Lee figured that he was probably Eric McNamara's father.

  "I'm Detective Butts with the NYPD," Butts said gently. "And this is Dr. Lee Campbell. Can you tell us where your son is?"

  The old man opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out were pitiful, strangled sounds.

  At that moment Lee realized he had no tongue.

  "Jesus Christ," Butts muttered, running a hand over his face. "Jesus goddamn Christ."

  "Mr. McNamara?" Lee said. "Are you Mr. McNamara?"

  He nodded frantically, clutching Lee's hand in his clawlike grip. His skin felt loose, and it was as thin as rice paper.

  "Do you know where your son is?"

  The old man shook his head violently, trying again to speak, producing more pathetic gurgling noises.

  "He lives here with you?" Lee asked.

  Mr. McNamara nodded, taking Lee's hand in both of his, babbling incoherently. Lee felt his stomach lurch, and turned to Butts for help.

  "Do you mind if we have a look around?" Butts asked.

  The old man shook his head, and made a disturbing attempt at a smile, displaying pink gums with a smattering of teeth.

  "Are you hungry?" Lee said.

  McNamara nodded, tightening his grip on Lee's hand.

  "You go ahead and start looking around," Lee said to Butts. "I'm going to get him something to eat."

  "Let Diesel do it," Butts said. "You and me need to case this place as soon as possible."

  Lee called Diesel in from the yard and gave him the task of escorting Mr. McNamara to the kitchen for some food. Diesel said very little, but from the look on his usually impassive face, Lee could tell he was shocked and disturbed by the sight of the old man. He led McNamara gently off to the kitchen, talking to him soothingly, as Lee and Butts headed upstairs.

  "It's gotta be him," Butts muttered as he lumbered up the steps after Lee. "Otherwise it's just too goddamn weird."

  Lee agreed, but didn't say anything as they reached the first floor landing. He turned right, and Butts followed him to the first room on the left. There was a lock on the outside, but it had been broken off, the nails ripped out of the wood, which was old and riddled with termites. It was clear someone had been locked inside that room, but had broken out. Lee and Butts exchanged a look.

  "Jesus," Butts said. "He kept his dad locked up."

  Inside the room was a single bed, a bureau, and a bookcase. It was not uncomfortably furnished-there was a red eiderdown quilt on the bed, and a hand-crocheted wall hanging of a rocking chair, over which were the words Home Sweet Home.

  They continued down the hall to the next room. Pushing open the door, Lee entered a small room with candles on every surface-the bureau, the bookshelves, the small table under the window.

  But it was the glass jar on the bookcase that drew his eyes. Hesitating, he approached it. As he got closer, he realized-without question-they had found their UNSUB.

  The jar was full of eyeballs floating in a liquid he assumed was formaldehyde.

  He looked at Butts. For once, the detective was speechless. He stared at the jar, then looked back at Lee, his face slack.

  They had their killer's identity. Now all they had to do is find him.

  C HAPTER S IXTY-SEVEN

  Caleb found what he wanted in the back of the little grocery store, and went up to the counter to pay for his two large bottles of Poland Spring water. You could never have too much water with you in the woods-he knew that from long experience. The woman behind the desk had a comforting look. Her face fell into itself, the skin deflated, her plump cheeks puckered in soft, round folds like a baked apple left in the oven too long. The sight of her full, matronly bosom seemed an invitation to lay his weary head on it. Looking at her, he yearned to nestle within those warm folds of femininity forever.

  "That will be five ninety-five," she said, smiling at him.

  He handed her a twenty, inhaling her scent as she took his money and counted out the change. Even the smell of her was comforting. It made him think of things baking: the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves rose gently from within the billowy sleeves of her paisl
ey blouse. It brought to mind warm, toasty kitchens at Christmastime, with racks of grinning gingerbread men hardening gently as steam rose and condensed into droplets on windowpanes.

  He wondered if his mother had smelled like that, but it was so long ago he couldn't remember. He wanted to say something to the woman, but when she gave him the change, her fingers brushed his palm, and he felt the heat rise to his forehead. He averted his eyes, mumbled his thanks, and fled the store.

  She wouldn't have smiled so sweetly at him if she had known what secrets he hid in his sinful breast. He hurried out to his car, where Charlotte lay waiting for him. He would take her to his secret place, to the sacred waters, where they would meet their fate together. And then, at last, his transformation would be complete: He would become the Green Man.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  A search of the house confirmed that Eric McNamara was gone. The only occupant of the house was the old man, and it looked as though he had been alone for some time. It was amazing that he had summoned enough strength to break out of his room-he was fortunate that the house was old and some of the wood was rotting. Diesel went out to search the barn, while Butts called for Social Services to come get Mr. McNamara.

  Diesel's search of the grounds turned up nothing, so they had to assume Eric had gone somewhere with Charlotte. Whether she was dead or alive was something Lee didn't want to speculate on; they could only hope she was still alive. As for Krieger, he was beginning to lose hope that she would ever be found alive.

  The first thing they did was call both the New York and Jersey state police to put out an APB. Their geographic profiling of the victims turned out to be right. Sure enough, Eric owned his own car, but was part of a conglomerate of limos operating out of Fleet Car Service, located in Riverdale-just a few blocks away from Spuyten Duyvil. It was easy enough to get the car's plate number; they just had to hope it was in time.

  "Who knows which way he went?" Butts said. "Let's call Pennsylvania, too."

  That made sense. They were so close to the border, and he might have decided to flee west with Charlotte. There was no telling where he had gone-or whether he had taken Krieger with him as well. They gathered in the kitchen to decide their next step.

  "Do you think the old guy knows anything?" Diesel asked. He had made a peanut butter sandwich for Mr. McNamara, who sat at the white-painted kitchen table gobbling it down, smacking his lips, taking large gulps of cold milk in between bites. Eating for him was a messy business, given his physical limitations; Lee tried not to watch. The old man kept looking up at the three of them, as if afraid they might leave him.

  Butts leaned down and spoke loudly and slowly to the old man, as though he were an imbecile.

  "Do – You – Know – Where – Your – Son – Went?"

  The old man narrowed his eyes and chewed his sandwich, spewing bits of bread in every direction.

  Butts straightened up and stretched his back. "You think he knows anything about Krieger?" he asked Lee.

  "Ask him."

  Butts leaned down, his face closer to the old man's ear. "Did – You – See – A – Tall – Redhead? With – A – German – Accent?" he shouted.

  McNamara stared at him.

  "The kid keeps him locked in his room," Diesel said with disgust. "He probably doesn't know a thing."

  "Eric probably went somewhere he feels comfortable,"

  Lee said. "Somewhere near water. But that could be anywhere."

  He leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed at a framed photograph on the opposite wall of a waterfall. It was a romantic picture, the water cascading gracefully down a series of ledges, smooth and white as clouds in a summer sky. In the foreground, a young man smiled at the camera, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. He took a step toward the picture, to see if there was a caption, but there was none. He turned to Mr. McNamara.

  "Is this your son?"

  The old man nodded, his mouth full of sandwich. "Do you know where this is?" Another nod, in between slurps of milk. "Does he go there often?"

  Mr. McNamara began gesticulating and making strangled attempts at speech. Then his eyes lit up, and he pointed at his glass of milk.

  "What's he doin'?" Butts asked.

  The old man leapt from his chair, yanked open the refrigerator, grabbed a stick of butter, and held it out triumphantly. The consumption of food had apparently energized him. He pointed to the butter, then back at the glass of milk.

  "Butter-milk?" said Diesel.

  "Buttermilk!" Lee cried. "Buttermilk Falls!" He seized Mr. McNamara by the shoulders. "The photo-it's Buttermilk Falls?"

  The old man opened his mouth and made a sound that was his version of a laugh, though it was more like the mooing of a dyspeptic cow.

  "What's Buttermilk Falls?" Butts said. "You know the place?"

  "It's up the Delaware, near the Water Gap," Lee said. "It's a county park with hiking trails. I went there once or twice as a teenager." What he didn't say was that his first trip there was with his father.

  "You think he took her there?" Butts asked, frowning.

  "I think it's very possible," Lee replied.

  "Yeah, but why drag her all the way up there?"

  "There's been a progression in his killing-from a bathtub to the East River to Spuyten Duyvil, each location has been successively more dangerous and turbulent."

  Mr. McNamara began nodding vigorously, making strained yelping sounds.

  "You think he went there?" Butts asked him.

  The old man nodded some more, looking at each of them, his face earnest.

  "Did he tell you he was going there?" Lee asked.

  McNamara hesitated, then grabbed a pencil from a canister on the shelf and wrote on his napkin. I saw his hiking map!

  "You heard the man," said Butts. "He wouldn't be trying to protect his son, would he?" Diesel asked.

  "When he's been lockin' him up for God knows how long?" Butts replied. "C'mon-let's go!"

  As they started out through the dining room, Lee thought he heard something-a faint scratching sound, like a mouse in the woodwork. He turned to Butts.

  "You hear that?"

  Butts listened. "Naw, I don't hear anything."

  But Lee heard it again-a rustling, like a small animal burrowing inside the walls. "There it is again," he said. "I think it's coming from-from there." He pointed to one of the paneled dining room walls. A sudden loud clattering came from somewhere behind the walls, like the sound of cans being overturned.

  Lee stepped closer to the wall and ran a hand over the wood, which was coated in peeling blue and white paint. He moved along the wall, pressing and tapping on the panels one by one. When he reached the end of the wall, he noticed the last panel sounded different-more hollow, somehow. Then he saw the floor-it had a deep scratch in the shape of a half-moon. He realized all at once that what he was looking at was not a wall, but a door.

  His heart jackhammered against his chest as he pushed against the panel where it met the wall-and it gave way. A narrow stone staircase snaked down to a hidden basement-perhaps originally built as a hideout from the Indians who roamed these lands in the nineteenth century when the house was built.

  He turned to Butts and motioned him over, a finger to his lips. The detective pulled his gun from its holster and crept toward the stairs.

  "Shouldn't you call for backup?" Lee whispered, but Butts shook his head and started down the steps. Lee followed, searching for a light switch, but found none.

  There, at the bottom of the stairs, they found her. Bound, gagged, and exhausted, Elena Krieger sat on the cold stone floor, crumpled amid a pile of overturned paint cans. When they removed the gag, she shivered so violently she could barely speak.

  "Did he hurt you?" Butts said, dispensing with the formalities of greeting.

  "N-no, I'm okay," she said through clattering teeth, but she didn't look okay. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her and she collapsed into their arms.

  "Easy, easy,"
Lee said, removing his light jacket to wrap it around her shoulders.

  They called for Diesel, who scooped her up in his powerful arms and carried her up the steps as though she were a child.

  "Now," Butts said, turning to Lee. "That waterfall in the picture-can you get us there?"

  "I think so. Do you have a map of Jersey in your car?" "Of course," Butts replied. "Never go anywhere without it."

  "Good. We'll start off on the River Road." "What are we waitin' for?" Butts said, fishing out his car keys.

  "What if we're wrong?" Diesel asked, Krieger still in his arms.

  "We'd better pray we're not," Lee answered as the three of them hurried out toward the car. Mr. McNamara followed close behind, braying like a mournful donkey. Lee was getting used to his vocalizations, and understood this was his way of saying Don't leave me.

  "Don't worry, Mr. McNamara," he called over his shoulder. "Someone is on their way to take care of you."

  The Social Services ambulance was waiting outside, and they handed Krieger over to them to be whisked away, protesting, along with Mr. McNamara. Ignoring the stares of the social workers, they climbed into the old Ford and headed west on County Road 604. The car rattled through the old covered bridge that used to enchant Laura as a child-she always dreamed of living in the little green cottage next to it and being, as she called it, The Bridge Keeper. Lee would tease her, saying that a covered bridge didn't need a keeper, but she always insisted that it did, and that would be her job.

  When they reached the Delaware they took the River Road north, following the river until County 519 cut away from the shoreline. They took that all the way into Sussex

  County, at which time Lee unfolded the state map and studied it carefully. The entire western section of the county was a great swath of parkland known as Stokes State Forest. Right in the middle of it was Wallpack Center-and just below it, Buttermilk Falls.

  "Okay," he said, "got it. Just follow Wallpack Road."

  The forest was dotted with lakes and creeks connecting them, and in the middle, where three streams met, was the Falls.