“Seen you up at the podium in front of all those fancy people dressed for the occasion, too. Yep. I was there, Special Agent. You and me go back a long ways.” A smile broadened across his face. “Cat kind of got your tongue, huh? Just like it did when you saw that wild man of Borneo back there at the museum? Our friend with the stone.” He chuckled like a parent somehow indulging a child.
Prusik’s mind started spinning wildly. He’d been there. He’d seen her reaction to the display case.
“See, that’s what I like about you. You and me, we understand. We’re alike that way.”
“What do you mean we’re alike, Donald?” She tried to sound conversational. “I don’t go around killing innocent people.”
He cackled. “You do have a sense of humor, don’t you, FBI lady? You’re just like me. That’s why I been leaving those presents for you like I been doing. The first girl, she only got a regular stone, but that was before I knew there was someone else out there like me. And it was you, a copper!” He cackled again. “But no use cryin’ over spilt milk.”
Prusik felt sick. He’d been leaving charm stones in his victims’ throats for her to find.
“You ran out the room because of its power, didn’t you?” Holmquist lifted his hand from his shirt collar and dangled something. “See? I know you.”
Prusik didn’t dare look up. The fact he’d had her on his radar from the beginning had her floored. She clenched her knees, tried summoning her vanishing point through the windshield: the lap-pool lane, coursing through the smooth waters, rolling her torso from side to side, rotating her arms up overhead, and knifing down through to complete the rhythm of her swim stroke. This time she couldn’t visualize it. She couldn’t grasp anything beyond feeling like a cornered animal.
She focused her attention on the blank pad of paper stuck to the dashboard. It was a small prescription pad conveniently adhered near the instrument cluster, above where an ashtray is usually located. Printed across the top of the pad she read the name: Irwin Walstein, MD. The thud in the car’s trunk when Holmquist suddenly braked flashed through her mind. She had an urge to speak, but her throat constricted as if it might seal off. She gathered herself. “What about Dr. Walstein?”
Holmquist twisted his hands around the steering-wheel grip, shrugged. “You mean Claremont’s doctor?” He twisted his neck right and left, cracking the vertebrae like Prusik’s father would crack his knuckles. “Did unto him as he’d have done unto me.” Prusik fought to find calm. She had a terrible urge to leap from the moving car, with the idea that she would tumble and run. But she couldn’t, not with the car doing fifty. She’d be knocked unconscious—if not from the jump, from his finishing her off at the edge of the road. Stick with plan A, she told herself: stay calm, keep him distracted, somehow get to a public place, and do it quickly.
Prusik flashed on his fingers prodding along her abdomen when she lay semiconscious a few moments ago. “What did you mean by my ‘little surprise,’ Donald?”
He cast a quick glance at the rearview mirror, then returned his eyes to the road.
“Let’s talk about this stone business. The power they have, as you say.”
Holmquist was listening. She noticed him shoving his tongue against his cheek, or maybe he was chewing on something inside his mouth.
“I’m an anthropologist, you know.” Prusik gritted her teeth, determined to maintain level, that calm space in the heat of battle that she’d practiced during her FBI basic training. “I did summer research a long time ago in Papua New Guinea. Saw carved stones just like yours.”
He nodded slightly, an acknowledgment of sorts.
“It’s been puzzling me—the stones, and their significance to you.”
Holmquist turned toward her, his face oddly displaying a cheesy grin. “Why? You wanting another all to yourself?” he said in a low voice.
His lips parted. Between his teeth was something hard: a shiny sliver that glistened with saliva. A charm stone.
Prusik squinted to read the fuel gauge. From her angle, it looked nearly on empty. If the car rolled to a stop, she’d make a dash for certain. She slipped off her shoes, preparing. She rubbed the bottoms of her heels against the floorboards.
“What’d you do that for?” he said. “Take off your shoes?”
“I…they hurt.” She felt herself winding back up; her heart knocked against her blouse. “How’s the fuel?” she blurted out.
“Enough to last till Blackie.”
Prusik groped with her hand down between her seat and the passenger door. She felt inside her purse and coughed hard at the same time as she punched the memory button for McFaron’s cell phone number, praying it would connect through to him this time. She didn’t dare look down and risk losing her one chance. She had to assume the call went through.
“Donald, why are we turning north onto the state highway?” She enunciated as clearly as she could. “Isn’t Echo Lake in the opposite direction? You said Blackie? Why are we headed to Blackie when they were expecting me at Echo Lake more than two hours ago?”
They passed under a large green sign indicating five miles to Crosshaven’s airport, where she’d landed only hours ago. Why is he headed back to Blackie?
“Take a left at the Crosshaven airport ramp, would you?” she said brusquely. “I forgot my bag at the counter.”
His right hand descended at lightning speed and squeezed her thigh painfully hard. “Nice try, copper. You won’t be needing no bags where you’re going.” He returned his hand to the steering wheel and tapped out a lively rhythm.
Prusik’s heart vibrated like the wings of a hummingbird, threatening to dart right out of her chest and buzz off into the night. His confidence was ratcheting up her fear. So was the shiny sliver of stone he’d displayed between his teeth. Why had he asked her if she wanted another? She flattened her sweaty palms against her thighs, fighting to pull herself together.
The outside lights of the interstate gas plaza north of Crosshaven appeared up ahead.
Numb from adrenaline rushes, Prusik was devoid of any further desire to struggle. Just the way he wanted her. She thought of the nature programs she’d watched on television as a young girl. In the slowmotion chase of a cheetah after a gazelle, the cheetah would lunge, swiping the legs out from under the graceful animal, then hover nonchalantly over it, with no need to hold on to it. Hovering was enough to keep the poor animal frozen in place as its own nervous system conspired against it. Prusik had pounded the floor in front of the TV screen, urging the fleet-footed gazelle to run: “Get up, go! Get away, you can make it!”
Now, she was like that downed gazelle—feeling that same frozen-in-place terror, that same inward collapse as if an invisible but palpable electric current had hooked up between Holmquist and Prusik, predator and prey. He looked at her. She caught a faint flicker of retinal red in the passing lights of an oncoming car.
“Don’t try any funny business, if you catch my drift,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Prusik gripped the door handle in her right hand. She’d bail if she had to. But first she must steady herself.
The rumble of a vehicle approaching fast from behind caught Christine’s attention. Headlights flooded in through the back window. A large SUV veered closer into Holmquist’s lane, trying to head him off, clipping the front panel of the doctor’s car and sending it fishtailing onto the soft shoulder in a cloud of dust. Ahead, the SUV’s tires squealed, got hung up on the lip of the pavement, and careened sideways too fast over loose gravel. In an instant it was airborne on an angle and cleared the steep embankment. Christine winced as she watched it slam into a freshly plowed field and come to rest on its roof.
The sedan’s front tires were spinning freely, suspended over the deep irrigation ditch ten feet below the road’s shoulder. Holmquist flung open the driver’s side door and dropped down into the ditch out of sight, thrashing among the weeds. Beyond the ditch, Christine could hear the whirring sound of a spinning tire fade—the
flipped vehicle. She made out the shape of it and read, upside down on the door panel, the large letters: CROSSHAVEN SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.
Christine flung open her door and slid down into the steep irrigation drain, grasping handfuls of weeds to steady herself. She slipped onto the scummy tiles lining the bottom of the excavated channel, enveloped in sudden darkness. Without her .38 Special, being trapped in the dark ditch with Holmquist wasn’t an option. She clawed her way up the opposite side and reached the plowed field. The loamy dirt felt good under her bare feet. The sound of splashing came from the ditch behind her—Holmquist was getting away.
Christine plodded awkwardly through the deep plowed soil, her arms outstretched for balance. The Bronco lay resting on its roof at the edge of the field. She reached through the busted-out driver’s window and with two fingers palpated the sheriff’s carotid artery, checking for a pulse. It was strong.
“Joe,” she whispered, gently squeezing his arm. “Can you hear me?”
McFaron didn’t respond. She felt along his gun belt and pulled the Maglite from its holder. She flicked it on. McFaron’s face was bloodied. His eyes fluttered.
“Check Claremont.” He winced. “In back.”
Prusik shone the light across spare rubber boots and an emergency first-aid kit that had broken off its holder. Glass shards from the busted-out side windows glinted under her beam. “He’s not there. He must have been thrown clear.” Christine aimed the beam around the sides of the truck and spotted a set of fresh footsteps that led across the field. She traced the light in their general direction, but there was no sign of the man.
McFaron’s eyelids closed again. She feared that moving him would cause him more injury, so she didn’t unfasten his seat belt. Prusik retrieved his service revolver—all six chambers were loaded.
The radio transmitter suddenly blared from the dangling mike cord. “Sheriff McFaron, this is Mary, over.”
Prusik grabbed hold of the mike. “Mary, this is Special Agent Prusik speaking. There’s been an accident about four miles north of the interstate gas terminal, in a field bordering the northbound lane of the state highway. Sheriff McFaron is hurt, semiconscious. We need an ambulance and police backup ASAP. Donald Holmquist kidnapped me this afternoon and has now escaped on foot. He’s killed at least three Indiana girls that we know of.”
Christine waited for Mary’s acknowledgment and then took off along the field toward a small stand of second-growth poplars, holding the sheriff’s gun barrel high. Nearing the trees, she dropped into a crouch beside the embankment, listening for signs of movement. The horizon glowed beyond the trees. Less than a minute later the edge of a full moon appeared over the crest of a hill, perceptibly brightening the landscape. A branch snapped. Something moved up ahead in the thicket that bordered the field’s edge—the shadow of someone ducking behind a trunk. Donald Holmquist or David Claremont?
Christine held the gun steady and trained the powerful Maglite beam from tree trunk to tree trunk. She felt certain it was Holmquist hiding there. Claremont would surely have revealed himself or said something. She pressed forward through the weeds, aiming the gun chest-high, continuing to sweep the beam from left to right. The killer was probably eyeing her already, planning his next move. She illuminated one trunk large enough to hide a man and stayed hidden in the weeds.
“Donald Holmquist, this is the FBI. Come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest for the murders of Betsy Ryan, Missy Hooper, and Julie Heath.”
No sound came back in return but her beating heart. She approached slowly, remaining low on her haunches. Stopping under the gloomy canopy of the largest tree, she shone the light slowly around the grove.
“Stand clear, Mr. Holmquist, with your hands up!”
Prusik drew back the firing pin. For the first time, she felt like the hunter. She was a dead shot—her marksmanship had been best in her class in the FBI training program—and holding the gun helped compose her.
“Holmquist, this is your last chance. Give yourself up now.” The words came to her automatically. “I will shoot to kill if necessary.”
A branch cracked overhead. Holmquist was airborne over her, his arms outstretched. Prusik fired once at the man’s midsection. The sudden force of his falling body knocked her to the ground. Both the gun and flashlight came out of her grasp. He was on top of her, panting loudly—she’d wounded him.
“Nice shooting, FBI lady,” he managed between heaving breaths.
Prusik jerked her knee up into the injured man’s crotch. Holmquist cringed but didn’t relax his hold, pinning her by the wrists. His face drew near hers.
“You won’t be needing to shoot me full of holes no more.” Clasping both her wrists in his left hand, he jerked up her blouse, prodding, palpating her abdomen, as if getting a measure of things. She was amazed by the wounded man’s strength.
Summoning her rage, Prusik strained her neck muscles upward and bit down on Holmquist’s chin with everything she could muster, lodging an eyetooth deep into his flesh. He groaned, slapped at her cheek, clawing, searching for purchase along her jawbone. Prusik bit down harder, scraping chinbone, willing the strength of her entire body into her tooth hold.
She freed one hand and grasped the stone dangling from his neck. With a furious jab, she drilled the charm stone inside the killer’s ear, twisting it for maximum effect. He flopped off.
A squirt of adrenaline was all that seemed to be necessary to clear his mind and send him scrambling off across the field. Prusik frantically patted the weeds, searching for and finding the gun and the light.
She stood gazing in the direction Holmquist had taken. The moon suddenly dimmed, cloaked behind a passing cloud, as if conspiring with him. Precious seconds had passed.
She knew a gunshot wound in the stomach was mean. A web of major arteries and veins fed through a man’s midsection, and the chances of a .38’s slug passing clean through were next to nil. The loss of blood would be substantial.
The full moon appeared again, hanging over the treetops, orange as a mango. Out in the open, it was easy for Prusik to pick out Holmquist’s footsteps in the plowed soil. She hoped that she’d spot the injured man crumpled on the ground, but only uninterrupted plow lines met her gaze.
From the distance came the wail of police sirens and a strand of shimmering bubble lights. The imminent arrival of backup buoyed her confidence. A small rise in the field sloped suddenly away. Prusik kept her head down, the barrel of the gun straight ahead in a lowered position. Her left hand clutched the Maglite. She passed down the gentle slope without realizing that she was now hidden from the view of anyone on the state road.
Just ahead of her, a darker smudge marred the tilled expanse. A leg moved in the furrows—Holmquist’s. Prusik warily approached the downed man. From a good ten feet away she shone the light into his face—no response. His shirtfront was heavily stained with blood. She moved in, tapped his leg with her foot. Still no response.
She lowered the Maglite. Holmquist came alive, thrashing and kicking the light out of her grip. He was on his feet and charged her. Christine lost her balance and fell to the ground.
“Get away from her!” A body lunged in from the side, separating her from her assailant. “Get away from her, I said,” her defender roared in fury. The two men struggled on the ground.
Christine got to her knee and drew a bead on the man who lay beneath her rescuer. “It’s OK, sir,” she said to the man in a tattered shirt on top of Holmquist. “I’m an officer of the law, Special Agent Christine Prusik. Please get off the suspect.”
The men continued to struggle as if they hadn’t heard hear. Amid grunting and moaning and bellowing came tearful accusations from both straining figures—had she heard right?
Prusik fired a shot in the air. “Get off the suspect, sir! That’s an order!”
When her rescuer hesitated, Holmquist threw him off. Then he hobbled unsteadily toward the dark edge of the field. Prusik didn’t give chase this time. Holmquis
t wasn’t long for this world, and she was exhausted to the bone. Between heaving breaths, the man on the ground said, “Please, ma’am, don’t shoot him.”
Prusik immediately recognized the voice. “David?”
He raised his hand in acknowledgment. “Please don’t shoot my brother.”
Prusik lowered the gun. Her arm trembled badly from the strain of combat. “I owe you an apology, David.”
Claremont’s eyes drifted back out over the field, following his brother’s haphazard footsteps. “I’ll stay with him till the law comes. I promise.”
“Forgetting something, David? I am the law. A .38 slug tore through his midsection. He won’t get very far.” She measured Claremont’s ragged state. “You were thrown clear in the car wreck?”
He got to his feet, fidgeting his hands. “I’m sorry for not helping out before. I was afraid I’d get shot in the mix-up.” As Claremont spoke he gazed intently in the direction Holmquist had fled, wringing his hands, caught in a maelstrom Prusik could barely begin to fathom. In the illumination of the cool moonlight, his face gave the appearance of a man who bore too much of the world’s weight upon his shoulders.
“I should go, Ms. Prusik. I need to find him.” Claremont started off in the direction Holmquist had loped.
Christine wiped a few clods of dirt off her suit pants, too drained to stop him. Claremont’s anguish—and it was nothing less than anguish—was excruciating to witness. What agonies of the deep had the twinning bond dredged up? What loss must Claremont be feeling as the life drained out of his mirror image?
Christine shook her head, trying to clear it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, but she felt perilously close to tears. Bursts of laser-like light illuminated the western sky from what she estimated to be fifteen or twenty police cars just out of sight over the rise. She gazed east, in the direction that Claremont had taken, then turned and headed back toward the state road.
Stone Maidens Page 28