Stone Maidens

by Lloyd Devereux Richards

  “Is the girl hurt?” McFaron said anxiously.

  “Not a hair on her head has been mussed. Had the daylights scared out of her, though. According to Sarah, this guy just about ran her down after soccer practice on Friday. She didn’t tell her parents till this morning. Too scared.”

  McFaron’s cheeks burned. “Damn! She’s sure about the ID?” He ripped open a new roll of Tums, chewed three at once.

  “Says the picture’s the spitting image.”

  Outside, apparently preparing for a siege, federal agents were setting up sensing devices and wielding scanning pods on the ends of long metal poles. A female agent, her blonde hair in a ponytail, positioned a headset over her ears and clipped a pod to a vest harness. She began waving the sensor over leaves at the edge of the forest.

  “Called you as soon as I could, Sheriff. I knew you’d want to know about this.”

  “Listen, Rodney, hold the girl there. We’ll need to get her statement. You’ll hear from me within the hour.”

  McFaron hung up. Parker was practically on his doorstep. This was one bold bastard on the prowl. Christine Prusik would be damn pleased to hear about this development.

  Mr. Cool started wandering back over. McFaron exited the Bronco and found that his initial annoyance with the FBI team’s arrival had receded.

  “Sheriff McFaron, Crosshaven County.” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Special Agent Bruce Howard.” They shook hands, and the agent gave McFaron a business card.

  “Afraid I’m all out of cards,” McFaron said with a straight face. He gave Howard his cell and office phone numbers and watched the agent key the numbers into a BlackBerry.

  “We’ll follow you down, Sheriff,” Howard said, his voice neutral. Despite an overcast sky, he kept his shades on.

  His perfunctory response was fine with McFaron. Better to keep things businesslike.

  Agents wearing khakis and lightweight navy Windbreakers with the large yellow FBI logo stenciled across their backs spread out across the forested slope. Stepping down the steep embankment, McFaron followed the trail through the disturbed leaves. Halfway down, he said, “That large log to one side was positioned over the body.” He pointed. “The one curving downhill slightly.”

  “Got it. Thank you, Sheriff. We’ll take it from here.” Howard motioned left then right to his technicians, who descended on either side, carrying electronic equipment.

  A technician in goggles flicked on a fluorescent light attached to the end of a long-handled pole. McFaron knew he was looking for trace evidence that would glow under the special ultraviolet lamp.

  The sheriff backtracked to his truck, yelling over his shoulder, “Give a holler if you need anything.”

  Howard gave a mock salute. The smug prick, thought McFaron. At the same time, he prayed they’d find something significant. Wrap this thing up before another girl wasn’t as lucky as Sarah North.

  He slammed the truck door and sat behind the wheel. A tingling sensation started up in his chest. Too much stress on his heart? His dad had died suddenly at forty, barely middle-aged. His doctor had blamed years of smoking for leaving him slumped over a log at the mill yard, ending life with a burn mark between two fingers from a last cigarette. “So long, son” had been his last words to McFaron earlier that morning, the same words he’d always said as he passed his son’s bedroom door on his way off into the predawn air. And then he was gone, just like that.

  How many more years did he have, McFaron wondered. And how would he spend them? In a certain way, his world hadn’t changed much since his father’s death, when a kind of emotional numbness had set in. By the time of his mother’s death, McFaron had felt nothing. And when he did recognize feeling something more than the irritations of the workday, it was emptiness, like the barely visible face of the moon against a pale-blue sky, a great silent presence. With the coming of night, when the moon loomed brightly, turning the backyard into stark shapes and shadows, McFaron’s struggle would begin anew, and the void within him would blacken. Swigs of Kentucky bourbon did little more than lighten its edges. Sooner or later he feared the pain would win.

  McFaron retrieved Christine Prusik’s business card from his wallet. If he was lucky she might not have eaten lunch yet. He called her cell phone number and accelerated without looking back.

  The phone beeped over the racket of idling diesels outside her window. The Interstate Motel shared a parking lot with a large truck stop plaza. Prusik found the receiver on the fourth ring.

  “Special Agent Prusik.”

  “Can I take you out for a sandwich, Christine?”

  She yawned aloud. She’d gotten up early, unable to sleep, and had been on the phone with her team and working on an update for Thorne all morning. Her stomach gurgled loudly. “Now that you mention it, I never had breakfast. A sandwich sounds good. Anything sounds good as long as it comes with lots of coffee.”

  “I can arrange that,” McFaron said. “Your man Howard and his team are going over the crime scene as we speak. They have all their hardware out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…I mean they’re going over the crime scene,” McFaron said slowly. “I led them out to the site a little while ago.”

  “Right,” Christine said after a moment.

  “Shoot, Christine,” the sheriff said. “I just assumed he’d called you.”

  “You assumed wrong, Sheriff.” She winced. McFaron didn’t deserve her sharp tone.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, he seems a bit full of himself.”

  “I don’t mind your saying,” she said, leaving it at that. She reminded herself to put in a call to Howard right after getting off the phone. She would afford him that civility even if he hadn’t bothered to call her on arrival, as all professional courtesy would demand.

  “One more thing,” McFaron said. “Actually, the most important thing.”

  “Yes?”

  He filled her in on Sarah North’s sighting.

  She felt her adrenaline start to pump. “Jesus Christ, he’s getting bold.” She took a breath. “This is great. We can go right over and interview her.”

  “After lunch. A few extra minutes won’t cost us anything, Christine. Didn’t your mother ever tell you about the importance of three meals a day?”

  “She wasn’t that kind of mother.”

  Joe smiled wryly. “Mine neither. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. I need to make a couple of phone calls.”

  Prusik nearly hit END but hesitated. “Uh, Joe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t mention any of this to Howard, did you?”

  “Didn’t think there was a need to.”

  “OK. See you in a few.”

  So Prusik wouldn’t be flying back to Chicago right away. McFaron would pick her up and they’d grab some food to go before driving to Parker to interview the North girl.

  Prusik toggled through the address list on her PDA’s screen and steeled herself. “Bruce,” she said in her most congenial voice, “I understand that Sheriff McFaron led you and the field team to the crime scene? Any findings to report?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve got Goodyear and Morrison checking several hundred yards out from the perimeter doing concentric rings.”

  “Good, good. I’m gathering my notes together from the postmortem and my interview yesterday afternoon with a witness.” She left out McFaron’s most recent revelation of a possible second witness. It was premature, she decided. And besides, she had no direct information yet. “I’m about to meet McFaron to discuss the other people he’s interviewed. Get a lay of the land. Shall we check in a couple of hours?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Howard said.

  “Great.” She clicked off the phone and sighed. Howard had said all the right things and so had she, but it was clear that neither one of them trusted the other. It would be nice to work with a real partner, someone who believed in teamwork and wasn’t always jockeying for position
, someone who wanted to solve the crime because he wanted to help, not because he wanted more power. Someone like…Joe.

  Slouching her shoulders forward, she examined herself in the mirror that hung over a small writing desk. Her face appeared smooth in the murky light, which hid the furrowed brow line no wrinkle cream could conceal. Not so bad for thirty-five, she thought. Thirty-five. Was that considered middle age?

  She whisked into the bathroom. McFaron would be arriving soon. She felt a bit of a wreck from the previous night’s terrors, but there was a tingle inside, too. There were two new developments to pursue, and if she were honest with herself, the prospect of pursuing them with Joe, at least for the morning, was exciting. Her response to him was bewildering but unmistakable. The sheriff had strong-looking hands and a handsome face. The day before when he’d driven her to the motel after she’d interviewed Joey Templeton, she’d found herself staring at the dark hair on his fingers.

  She took a quick shower and toweled off briskly, groaning at the prospect of putting on her dirty, wrinkled clothes. But it was that or pick out some cute cowgirl outfit at the farmer’s co-op she’d seen. Luckily the pantsuit had held up. Thank goodness for polyester.

  The rumble of a truck motor shot straight through the bottom of her black leather Rockport all-weather shoes, filling her with a tangle of emotions—dread, self-doubt, and resolve. She looked in the mirror again and gave herself an encouraging smile, then started to the door. The room was too depressing. She’d wait for McFaron outside.

  When her hand was on the doorknob, she stopped and made her way back to the mirror. Reaching into her handbag, she rummaged around until she found an old tube of lipstick, then slowly, carefully, she applied it to her lips.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Joe held the bag with their sandwiches in one hand and opened the door of the truck stop café with the other. “After you, Special Agent.”

  She smiled and led the way outside, a large cup of coffee in each hand, one for her, one for Joe. “Thanks, Sheriff.” After one cup of coffee quickly consumed while they were waiting for their takeout orders, she already felt much more human. After a second cup, along with a roast turkey sandwich, she thought she might feel downright civil.

  She started toward the sheriff’s Bronco, then stopped abruptly when she saw the FBI van pulled in next to the sheriff’s vehicle. Howard hopped out and motioned her over.

  She crossed the parking lot quickly. “Has something happened?” she said to her reflection in his mirrored lenses.

  Howard nodded toward McFaron. “Sheriff’s dispatcher said he’d probably bring you here for something to eat. I hope it was good.”

  “We’re just grabbing takeout before heading back to work, Bruce. What’s up?”

  He pulled the aviators down far enough to make eye contact over the frames. “Managing director’s on the line. Asked to speak with you.” He handed her his cell phone.

  “Christine?” Thorne’s voice sounded tentative. “Listen, has Howard told you?”

  “Told me what?” Prusik ducked behind the Bronco, pressing her free hand against her other ear to block out the clattering engine noise of the truck lot.

  “Howard’s connected the police sketch with a farmhand who lives in Weaversville, Indiana. A police photo of David Claremont was a ten-point match. He recently attacked a woman in a local parking lot, and police were called to the scene.”

  “What? What kind of attack? What happened to the woman?”

  “Oh, she’s fine. Didn’t press charges. She could have, though. There were plenty of witnesses in the parking lot. I don’t know any more than that right now. Anyway, according to the local police in Weaversville, this Claremont has got an old pickup truck, too. Howard said you’ve got a witness in Crosshaven who saw an old truck. Is that right?”

  Prusik bit her lip. She’d just spoken to Howard no more than forty-five minutes ago. Had all of this new information really just come to light since then? Unlikely.

  “Still there? Christine?”

  “Yes, I’m still here, Roger,” she replied, her voice muted. “I’ll check it out right away.”

  “I needn’t tell you how delighted Washington is with the turn of events,” Thorne said happily.

  You just did, she thought glumly. “I’m sure they are, sir.”

  “In fact, delighted doesn’t quite say it, from Washington’s perspective. They’ve appointed Howard logistical lead. Just from the case-management perspective, of course. You’re still lead forensic investigator on these cases. I need you, Christine. You’re vital to the success of the team, to producing a successful outcome.”

  Prusik could feel Howard’s eyes burning holes through her back. Surely he was picking up from her body language what she was being told. She stood up straighter.

  “You’ll remain in charge of your forensic lab team.” Thorne was repeating himself, filling the void. “And Washington has even nixed sending in an auxiliary unit now that a bona fide suspect’s surfaced. I trust I can expect your full cooperation in reporting to Bruce?”

  “Somehow that doesn’t sound like a question, Roger.”

  “Cut the attitude,” he said sternly. “Face it, Christine, you’re a day late and a dollar short. Five months without a suspect—look at it from headquarters’ perspective. You haven’t delivered the goods.” Relenting, he added, “You know I need you working with the lab team. It’s your forte, Christine. You’re still the best. It’s all for the best. We’re moving forward as a team.”

  Prusik crouched behind the Bronco, thoroughly humiliated. Giving her the news in this manner—in such a public setting, with the sheriff and Howard and his crew all nearby—was beyond demoralizing. And Thorne hadn’t even bothered to call her on her own cell phone. She swallowed hard.

  “Make no mistake, you’re still in charge of the forensic—”

  “Reporting to Howard, yes, yes.” A bitter aftertaste filled her mouth. “I heard you the first time, sir. Anything else?”

  “OK then.” Thorne’s voice moderated. He’d said his piece. “Good luck at the lineup. It’s scheduled for later today. Talk to Howard about it.”

  The sound of Howard yukking it up with his men by the RV snapped her out of it. She walked the phone over to him and returned it. “Congratulations to you, Bruce. Shall I meet up with you in Weaversville at the lineup?”

  Howard grinned at her, his sunglasses firmly in place. Her reflection in the mirrored lenses stared back at her.

  “Absolutely. And, say, your sheriff can come along, too, if he likes,” Howard said, lifting his chin toward McFaron, who was standing behind Prusik, his hands on his hips. “Scheduled for four o’clock.”

  She bit her lip and climbed aboard the Bronco, hastily slamming the door, then glanced McFaron’s way. “Well? Shall we get started?”

  The sheriff didn’t have to ask if there had been a transfer of power.

  “How far did you say Parker is?”

  “About a twenty-minute drive,” McFaron said, accelerating out of Crosshaven. “The North girl’s spotting him like that is pretty damn lucky, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll see.” It was a good break. And it was something she needed to tell Howard about. She should have said something back there in the parking lot, but she’d still been reeling. And your sheriff? Come on, Howard. How juvenile. Prusik shook her head. OK, she’d been juvenile, too.

  She gritted her teeth and speed-dialed Howard. “Bruce, we’ve just heard about a possible sighting of the suspect yesterday in a little town called Parker, about twenty minutes from here. I’d like to follow up on that.”

  “Sure, Christine. I’ll take care of the flesh-and-blood suspect. You go on over to Parker with the sheriff.” Howard disconnected without waiting for her response.

  Prusik closed her eyes and forced her attention to the matter at hand.

  Giving in to irresistible impulses was one of the killer’s weaknesses. If the North girl’s sighting was legitimate, it meant tha
t he’d attempted an attack in very close proximity to the Julie Heath crime scene after three previous attacks more widely spread out. Perhaps, rather than planning an attack and lying in wait for a victim, he’d seen an opportunity and tried to grab it. She shook her head, trying to make sense of the emerging inconsistencies. He seemed to prefer desolate places in which to select his victims, so why would he attack someone in a parking lot? And what about Missy Hooper? He had been careful enough that nobody remembered him, but picking up Missy with so many other people around was bold. His Friday encounter with Sarah North—if he was the one who had terrified the young soccer player as she jogged home—was even bolder. Perhaps he was beginning to make mistakes.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you seem distracted,” the sheriff said.

  “Sorry. I just was thinking about Sarah North, about the victims.” She forced a smile. “Kind of hard to shake the image of one of his victims once you’ve seen what he does to them.”

  Another pause lengthened into the space between them. Finally the sheriff cleared his throat. “You sure made Arlene Greenwald’s day back there at the truck stop, agreeing to come back and address that Brownie troop of hers sometime. You do that kind of thing often, speak to groups of people?”

  “Often enough. When I’m speaking to children, it’s usually a pleasure. It makes me happy to show young girls they can be successful in a job usually reserved for men.” She blushed. “If that doesn’t sound too ridiculously self-important.”

  “Not at all. That’s why Arlene said she invited you. It makes a lot of sense.”

  “When I speak in front of adults, it’s not always as pleasant.” She thought back to the museum opening on April 1. April Fool’s Day, indeed. She had certainly made a fool of herself.

  The land grew brighter and then darker as the sun poked in and out of clouds. It was fickle weather and more humid heat was forecast. They passed fields of tall corn tasseled out. Out Christine’s window it looked as if they had just crossed into a third-world country: metal-roofed shacks and mobile homes were set back in the middle of dug-up brown yards scattered with trucks and trash. They passed a small, square white sign for a town called Utopia. Several bullet holes pierced through the u.