“Thank heaven for good agents,” Teren said, hugging her. “Sorry I got here late. I left my conference early, but my flight was delayed. I rushed straight from the airport, quick as I could get here, but I came in just as you were…finishing up.”
Riley dropped onto the sofa, too weary to answer. Teren sat beside her, took her hand and squeezed it. The door opened and Miller Cantwell admitted himself. His recording company had sponsored this event and even Helen knew better than to bar him entrance.
“Riley,” he shook his head, blowing out an exasperated breath. “What was that?”
Riley rubbed a hand over her face. “I apologize, Miller. I just blanked. I couldn’t remember how the Beethoven begins. I just…couldn’t do it.”
Miller sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just got the word from Henry. We’re pulling our support. I’m sorry, Riley. We really thought you were ready.”
Helen entered the room, slamming the door behind her. “Don’t be hasty, Miller. The situation is salvageable.” She sent him a look that crackled with challenge and took up a position behind Riley, rubbing her shoulders, like a trainer on a prize fighter. “Let’s consider. Some attendees wanted their money back. Four or five. That’s it. If that’s a fair representation of audience satisfaction, it’s hardly catastrophic. As for the press, Frank Coston will write a sympathetic story and garner support, make Riley the underdog. Curious concert-goers will queue up for tickets, just to see what she’ll do. That novelty will carry us through this crisis and soon Riley will be in top form. You’ll see.”
She waved down Miller’s protest. “Yes, I know. Gabrielle Wilson will shred her to pieces in that rag she writes for. So what? I think the bump in publicity from this will come out in our favor. Riley’s a champ.” She gave Riley’s shoulders a squeeze.
Miller walked to the door, placing a hand on the doorknob.
“For what it’s worth, I agree. You’re a jewel, Riley.” He paused and Riley watched his shoulders slump under his expensive suit. “I’m sorry. The remaining performances are canceled.”
He went out the door and Helen swept off after him, her voice raised and cajoling.
Riley sat hunched on the sofa, steeped in misery, wanting the comfort of her own bed and a box of tissues, unable to believe it had ended like this. Concert pianists do not flee the stage. She cowered there, in the crook of Teren’s arm, until the voices in the hallway diminished under a pervading silence.
Teren patted her knee and stood up. “I took a shuttle to the airport, so I don’t have a car. Can I hitch a ride home?”
Riley felt dull and weighted. She watched him assess her tired droop and felt a rush of gratitude that he’d come. He pulled her to her feet.
“Give me your keys. I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 5
THE KILLER STRIPPED OFF HIS clothes, folding each item into a neat square, stacking them into a tower, with his shoes forming the foundation as a barrier against the dew-dampened earth. The chill of the early morning gripped him, raising gooseflesh as the watery, lemon-yellow sunlight filtered down through the sparse leaves and pine needles, slowing the flow of his blood to a sluggish stream. He raised the bloody strip, letting it flutter in the light breeze. This is the way she’d taught him. By blood and by fire.
He bent to the pile of sticks and stones and began arranging them, each of the three different types of wood laid in a distinctive pattern, the rocks like cornerstones, kindling on top. A small burlap sack yielded a nest of oakum, which he placed close at hand and from a tin box, he removed a cut of char cloth and folded it in half. A gust of wind slewed through the little clearing, making the leaves dance in a flurry of orange and gold, raising an eerie whistle in the thinning branches. The killer shivered and picked up the flint stone.
He’d found this stone in the run-off from the Nisqually and imagined it had spewed from Rainier in some long-ago eruption. It was smooth as glass, except for the sharp edge where it had shattered from the heat or from tossing down the riverbed, and it felt slightly greasy when he rubbed it. He placed the folded char cloth on top of the stone and took up a thin strip of steel, curling it around the knuckles of his right hand. He swung the steel down at a thirty degree angle against the sharp edge of the stone. Again and again he struck steel against stone, working to peel away a tiny sliver, waiting for the spark to catch and ignite the char cloth.
The steel was unresponsive. In the distance, a dog barked. The inhabitants of the earth were waking, moving, swelling every finger and every vein of her. The killer struck harder, working faster. A cold sweat now coated his naked body, chilling him further, gathering in his creases like a distillation of fear. The dog barked again, nearer this time, and accompanied by the faint droning of human voices.
He threw himself face-down on the leaf-strewn earth, digging his hands and toes into the soil, feeling for the pulse. He pressed his moistened nose into the dirt, drew in shallow breaths through his mouth, and prayed. His mind went away, drawn down into the bowels, the warm, sheltering channels of the earth, the primitive instinct for deep cover enveloping him in her protective womb.
When he returned to himself, the filtered sunlight fell with more heat on his bare skin and the woods were as silent as woods can ever be. He scrambled to his feet and took up the flint and steel. It sparked right away, as he knew it would. He transferred the burning char cloth to the oakum and blew gently as smoke curled up from the nest of delicate fibers, catching and growing. He watched the tongue of flame lick and devour, felt his own arousal, the echoing fire within himself.
Soon the altar fire was burning in earnest. The killer held up the banner of blood and began.
CHAPTER 6
RICK ENTERED THE EMPTY SQUAD room, stirring cream into his coffee, taking a tentative sip. The bitter-hot liquid stung his lip and he placed the cup on the table amid a smattering of sticky rings. He was the first to arrive and he used the time to review the Seattle PD files on the first two murders and to marvel how fate had drawn him into the very case he’d hoped to investigate. He was green as they come, having just earned the rank of Detective, but he’d worked hard preparing for this over the last nine years.
He remembered that rainy day in the dark, run-down taco joint. Remembered meeting with Cal and how that meeting had changed the course of his life. He finished his third tour with SEAL Team Eight, squeezing every bit of knowledge, training, and experience he could out of those years. He took an honorable discharge and entered the Police Academy, studied and earned a degree in Criminal Justice, struggled his way up the ranks. He worked and waited for further instruction, pushing back at the wall of doubt, the whispering voice that said they’d forgotten him.
Two weeks ago, after years of no contact, Cal had called.
“You in the mood for tacos?”
“Do bears take a dump in the woods?”
They’d met at Chico’s and Cal assured Rick he’d not been forgotten. On the contrary, from the details of their discussion, Rick understood that he’d been under close observation for much of the last nine years. He felt vindicated, and a little creeped out. They sat in a dimly lit booth, eating fish tacos, dripping sauce from their chins, mopping up with waxy paper napkins, and talking about the future.
In the squad room, his coffee had cooled to the perfect temperature. He drank it down and pondered the possibility that it had not been fate, but something more deliberate, that had maneuvered him onto this case. He would not over-analyze. When the brass ring presents, you grab it and go. All other considerations aside, one thing was clear: this was a test he must not fail.
The other members of the squad trickled in, cradling their own coffee cups while Nate herded in the stragglers and closed the door. Nate was the acting homicide supervisor, while the detective who carried the official title was out on emergency medical leave, undergoing back surgery. He asked for updates on current investigations, inquiring into plans and making assignments. Rick was half afraid Nate would change his min
d about letting a rookie homicide detective partner him on such a high-profile case, but he set the members of the squad about their business until only the two of them were left.
Nate scratched a few notes into the case book and flipped it shut. “Did you get an address for Mountain Vista?”
“It’s clear out in Mason County. You could just about stand on the eighteenth hole and cast a line into the Hood Canal. It’ll take all day just to follow up that one lead. What about splitting up, covering more ground?”
“Makes sense,” Nate said in a tone that suggested he was willing to be reasonable, even with a guy who had no track record. “You comfortable with that?”
“I am. I’d like to comb through these files, maybe follow up with some of the witnesses. Also check to see if they turned up anything more with the trace evidence, and be here to move quickly on any new information.”
“In other words, you still think the jacket’s got no legs.”
Rick grinned. “Jackets don’t, as a rule.”
“Got me there,” Nate said. “One problem, though. It’s a long drive to Mason County and my car’s got a bum radiator. I should have replaced it months ago, just never have the time.”
Rick was assigned one of the unmarked Ford Explorers used by the department detective squads, but Nate was accustomed to riding shotgun when he was on the clock, and drove his own car to the station each day.
“Leave me your jalopy and take the Explorer. Gas card’s in the glove compartment.”
Nate shrugged. “You sure?”
Rick felt a surge of confidence. “Absolutely.”
Nate dug in his pocket and tossed over his car keys, accepting Rick’s in return.
“There’s a jug of coolant in the trunk and four gallons of water. If you need to drive anywhere, just keep an eye on the temp gauge. You might have to stop to let her cool down and top it off.”
Nate left. Rick walked down two floors and entered the men’s restroom. He made sure he was alone and let himself into a stall, taking a cheap cell phone from his pocket and punching in a number he’d memorized but never called. Someone picked up and invited him to speak.
“I’m in,” was all he said.
CHAPTER 7
RAINIER WAS AWAKE AND SCREAMING. The earthquakes had resumed, increasing in both magnitude and frequency, accompanied by harmonic tremor for the first time in six weeks. Topper was galvanized, nearly dancing with frustration. Seattle and many surrounding communities slept within reach of the volcano, filled with mostly complacent people.
Someone had placed a copy of The Seattle Times on his desk, opened to an inner page, a short article circled in red pencil.
PARTY’S WINDING DOWN
Mt. Rainer has entertained Seattle in grand fashion since mid-July, but her game has grown old and now government officials are scratching their heads over how to pay for the road closures and lost revenue. Yes, Daddy has taken the T-bird away. We can no longer afford to pay attention to Rainier’s theatrics. The show’s over, Seattle. It’s back to business as usual.
The press had moved on, the briefings ended. Topper squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath. He knew when Rainier blew, it would not be lava flow or ash which posed the greatest danger, although these would be devastating. It would be the lahars, the rivers of mud created by landslides of melting snow mixing with boulders and debris, growing and picking up speed as they surged down the mountain like wet cement at forty miles per hour, destroying everything in their path.
Acoustic Flow Meters, AFMs, had been installed on the mountain at the heads of major river valleys. These had sensitive microphones that can detect the sound of lahars traveling over ground and send the alarm. Scientists, working with local emergency services, had developed evacuation plans for the communities at risk, but time would be perilously short and the paths to safety were remarkably limited.
Some towns, such as Orting, directly in the flow channel, were equipped with a hi-lo siren signal and even the school children were drilled in how to react to it—run to high ground. But outside of these communities, few were prepared for the catastrophic effects of a big eruption. The natural disaster would be eclipsed by man-made pandemonium.
Candace gave the wall of his cubicle a quick double-knock. “They’ve shut the mountain,” she told him. “Moved the road blocks down, restricted the area. The ball is rolling.”
Topper pulled at his hair. “That’s spit in the wind. No one’s taking it seriously.”
“It’s progress,” Candace said. “The Forest Service can close federal lands, but anything beyond that requires the governor’s approval and she’s under a lot of pressure not to close.”
“This is crazy.” Topper blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Private citizens assert their property rights and ignore the road blocks. Logging companies sign wavers and send their people in. Thrill-seekers get their kicks sneaking in as close to the monster as they can get. Rainier is going to blow. She’s gonna blow big and she’s gonna blow soon. The governor needs to issue a state of emergency and evacuate.”
Candace banged her head gently against his cubicle wall, echoing his vexation. “I agree, and we’re working on it,” she said, running a tired hand through her long, dark hair. “But it’s like building a boat while you’re rowing it and the funds for dealing with it have been drained over the last two months.”
“Someone’s got to front the cash. This has to be done.”
“No argument here, but we’re dealing with ‘the boy who cried wolf’ syndrome. The mountain has been threatening and then not following through for so long that no one listens anymore. The Game Commission lobbies to keep areas open for fishing and hunting so they don’t lose license revenue. Business owners cry foul when closures affect their bottom line.”
Topper started a protest but she held up a hand, cutting him off.
“On top of that,” she continued, “we’re dealing with multiple jurisdictions. Who’s responsible for setting the road blocks? Who pays to maintain them? Who’s in charge? There’s a lot to consider—”
“Wrong. There’s only one thing to consider. How to get people away from the mountain as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, and that starts with an official action. Like I said, we’re working on it.”
Topper smacked his fist against the countertop, sending a tub of paperclips skittering across the surface. “Put me in a helo. Let me go up and get some more samples. I’ll bet the SO2 levels have spiked since last night.”
“And what if they have?”
Topper saw that her chest was heaving under the white lab coat she wore. Her cheeks were flushed, her brows drawn down in a shape like a winging bird. He felt a little sorry. She was getting pounded from both sides.
He reached up and traced his thumb along her full bottom lip, where the red tint she always wore had gone a little smudgy. “I’ll take care of this,” he said.
She slapped his hand away. “What are you going to do?”
He sketched a salute and backed toward the door.
“Topper, stand down. Leave it!”
He shut the door behind him. At the other end of the hallway, he entered the lounge and saw Jack Ridley drowsing on a couch after a long night running samples.
“Hey, buddy,” Topper said, “You up for a road trip?”
They headed south on I-5, threading through the early Saturday traffic. The morning was cool, the air clear, and Topper could see Rainier rising in the distance, the tallest mountain in the Cascade range, part of the fabled ‘ring of fire.’ He kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator and watched for cops.
Jack peeled the wrapper off another Egg McMuffin from the paper sack on the console between them. “So, you’re convinced eruption is imminent and yet you’re taking us to the mountain? If you’ve got a hot date with death, why’d you have to bring me along?”
Topper munched a hash brown patty. “I need someone to help me put the fear of God into these people. I’d like to che
at death, not cozy up with it.”
“You know the old Sufi story, right? The Appointment in Samarra?”
“Let’s say I don’t.”
“Takes place in Baghdad, where this servant goes to the market and sees this scary looking dude and realizes it’s Death with a capital D. So, Death reaches out to him and it scares him out of his wits. He rushes back to his master and begs for a horse so he can ride to Samarra and escape the terrible fate waiting for him in Baghdad. The master is a nice guy and sends him away on his fastest horse, then goes out to investigate, and see if he can figure out what so terrified his servant. The master finds Death and he asks him, ‘Hey, what’s the big idea? Why’d you have to scare my guy away?’ And Death says, “I didn’t mean to frighten him. I was just so surprised to see him here because I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”
Topper swallowed potato and chugged some orange juice. “The moral being that you can’t cheat death. I get it, but don’t you think part of the human contract is to try? People do. It’s an accepted practice.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “And then there are those who accept their fate with grace. Remember what David always said?”
Topper nodded. “If I die young, I hope it’s in an eruption.”
David Johnston was probably the first casualty claimed by the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens, perched on his observation post six miles away. David believed that scientists must do whatever necessary, even at the risk of their own lives, to help protect the public from natural disasters. And he’d walked the walk.
Topper had been six years old when David died, and had never met the volcanologist, but he’d modeled his career after David’s example. David and his fellow scientists had convinced authorities to close down Mount St. Helens prior to the big eruption and their efforts had saved thousands of lives. Topper’s parents had let him watch as much of the news coverage as he could absorb, and the young boy had been transfixed, amazed that one man could have so much impact. He formed his life’s ambition from that day.
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 3