“Here’s your hamburger,” she’d said, handing him a foil wrapped packet. “Happy Birthday, honey.”
The burger had tasted like dust. He remembered how hard he’d worked to swallow each bite, wanting to spit it from his mouth, as he wanted to spit the memory from his mind. He pushed the scanner button on the radio, scrubbing the images from his thoughts, and found a news station.
“…since Mount St. Helens in May of 1980, though scientists predict a Rainier eruption could be far deadlier. The mountain continues to rumble, but no time frame has been specified and no official warnings have been issued. Also no word yet from the Governor’s office regarding what actions will be taken.”
A slight change in intonation, and the announcer continued.
“Police continue their investigation into the brutal slaying of Coby Waters, the singer and songwriter who took Downed Illusion to the top of the charts in the late nineties. The killing occurred early Friday in a wooded area outside Bellevue. Investigators are following a number of leads and declined to comment whether this case is connected to two similar murders in the Seattle area in recent weeks. For breaking news and developments keep your dial tuned to…”
He continued scanning through the stations, but it was all the same. One thing was clear. His work was not finished.
He grabbed the duffle bag off the seat and opened the car door. A quarter mile down the trail, he veered off the path and started looking for three kinds of wood, deadfalls that would be waiting for him. They were always waiting for him, laid ready by a benevolent hand. He gathered the stones and the broken branches, using his knife to pare down where necessary, arranging them in the duffle, checking that all items were in place. A tuneless humming passed between his pressed lips, accompanying his movements, allowing him, in some way, to be both distracted and focused on his own actions, like a man whose left hand didn’t know what his right hand was doing. He knelt and zipped the bag. He was ready.
He left no footprints in the pine needles and springy undergrowth. They disappeared instantly behind him, erasing his presence as he headed back to the car. He saw no birds, no squirrels. There was nothing to witness his passing.
He was like dust in the wind.
CHAPTER 10
TOPPER WATCHED AS AN OBJECT hovered in the sky above his Jeep. It cast a brief shadow over the hood and then swooped, hitting the windshield with a smack. A frisbee. The shirtless man who scooped it from the ground gave the car a double thump and a grin by way of apology.
Jack’s hands were braced against the dashboard and he stared out the window as if they’d just crash-landed on another planet. “This reminds me of that scene from The Ten Commandments, when Moses brings down the word of God from the mountain and everyone’s dancing around the golden calf.”
“I’m no Moses,” Topper replied, “but I guess I know what he felt like.”
They left the car and waded into the carnival atmosphere. Two young women, their long hair threaded with daisy chains, drifted by with dreamy expressions and the faint scent of cannabis. Topper watched a grizzled-looking old guy in a pair of mud-spattered dungarees weave through the crowd, clearly under the influence. The front of his T-shirt read, “This is Rainier,” and as he passed, Topper turned to read the follow-up: “This is Rainier on crack.” The letters were dripping with lava and fire shot out the top of the volcano.
Children raced each other up and down the road, gleeful and carefree, tagging the orange and white striped barrier as the finish line. The roadblock was unmanned. Whatever authority had placed it had abandoned post and the crowd surged freely on both sides of it.
Topper scanned the throng, pushing his way through, waiting for inspiration. A voice wavered above the general din, belting out an off-pitch rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.
Someone was set up for karaoke.
Topper set his course in that direction and got in line behind a woman who looked like Susan Boyle. He hoped it wasn’t, because that would be a hard act to follow, and when the woman’s turn arrived and she dove into the first verse of Livin’ On A Prayer, it became quickly apparent that the resemblance was only skin deep.
She finished to applause from what must have been her family, a thin, balding man surrounded by three plump ginger-headed children, and handed the mike to Topper.
“Whatcha singin’ buddy?” asked the man at the control board.
“Hang on.” Topper waved him off and held the microphone to his mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen, please listen to this important announcement. Mt. Rainier is about to erupt. I repeat, the mountain is gonna blow. Please pack your things and leave in an orderly fashion. You are in danger here and you n—”
Rough hands invaded his armpits as two men hefted him from behind and dragged him away amid the laughter and cheering of the crowd. Another man stepped forward and snatched the microphone.
“Cue up some John Denver for me, Sid. You got Grandma’s Featherbed?”
Topper was carried outside the circle of revelers and tossed down, with more amusement than derision. The sun was directly overhead and he shut his eyes against it, rolled over, and sat up. Jack joined him, trying to stifle a grin.
Topper scowled. “Not funny,” he said.
Jack shrugged and cut his eyes to the left where a line of men milled about at the edge of the mob. One was fitted out with a sandwich board printed in large, blood-red letters: DOOMSDAY IS HERE! THE END IS NEAR! Another man was dressed in a robe and wore a long, white beard. He carried cardboard tablets, a replica of The Ten Commandments.
“Moses showed up after all,” Topper said. “What do we do now?”
“I could go for a lava burger.”
Topper’s phone vibrated in his pants pocket. He pulled it out and read the text from Candace.
We got the green light. Come help me.
“Grab it to go, then. It’s time to make like the Red Sea and split.”
CHAPTER 11
NATE HATED TRAVELING AROUND THE Point of Tacoma on I-5. Traffic through there was always the pits and passing the Tacoma Dome, a dull, ugly hump on the horizon, depressed him. He tried dialing Anita again and when he heard the standard voicemail pick up, he disconnected. Anita Graham had been a presenter at a conference he’d attended last year in Florida. She was a profiler, and the seminar she’d conducted had been interesting and convincing. Nate had cultivated her contact and consulted her three or four times, finding her guidance helpful and insightful. Except for the last time he’d called, a month ago.
His phone buzzed and he picked up the call. Anita, with her usual efficiency, offered no preamble. “Nate, how can I help?”
“Hello, Anita. I’ll be sending you more details, but I hoped you could give me a preliminary opinion on what I’m looking at.” Nate outlined the case and gave information for the two prior cases he believed were connected to it.
“What is it with Seattle?” she asked. “You guys seem to grow more than your fair share of cereal crops. Sorry, I couldn’t resist the pun.”
Nate understood the question was rhetorical and didn’t bother formulating an answer. He knew her mind was busy processing information and her conclusions would soon pour forth.
A short pause and then,“Okay, this is just my initial impression. I know you’re looking for a starting point and I’ll give you what I can. You’ve got three victims: a corporate exec, a right-wing senator, and a rock star. Your victims are all male, no discernible sexual component. Disparate demographics and physical descriptions. All three had their throats cut with what appears to be a similar, sharp-bladed instrument. All three crime scenes were remarkably clean as to trace evidence. No fingerprints, only undefined footmarks. The first two scenes had an arrangement of sticks and stones that might be an altar of some sort and might contain some kind of message. The third scene had a scatter of similar sticks and stones that might have been in the same arrangement and been somehow disturbed. Did I get all that right?”
“You got it, Anita. Sharp as ev
er.”
“You’re dealing with a very organized killer, Nate. I’d say you’re looking for a white male, probably mid to late thirties, or a little older. A planner, and shrewd. Could have a prior record of burglary or assault, but my gut says no. He’s probably committed any number of crimes over the years, but he’s smart and organized. Chances are, he never got caught.”
“Any idea why he does it?”
“I see no suggestion of a sexual motive, no signs of torture or overkill like you find with someone who enjoys inflicting pain and taking life. I’d say you’ve got either a thrill-seeker or a mission-oriented killer. All the victims were high-profile, so that suggests your guy likes attention. It may be a game for him.”
“Wonderful,” Nate said, shifting down and trying to angle into the right lane for the turn-off toward Gig Harbor.
“Nate, last time we talked…is everything alright?”
He growled and goosed the accelerator, cutting in front of a pickup hauling a boat. “I’ve got to go, Anita. Thanks for your help.” He ended the call and signaled for the exit.
How much stock should he put in Anita’s assessments? She’d hit it spot-on the first time he’d asked for her help and come darn close the second time. The last time he’d consulted her, it had been about Brad, the man spending time with his ex-wife and daughter. Her evaluation had instilled in him the disturbing impression that his family was becoming wrapped up with a pedophile. Marilyn dismissed this, furious that he’d insinuate such a thing. He was jealous, she said, making excuses for his own inadequacies. This was true, of course. But it didn’t mean he was wrong, that Anita was wrong.
If he trusted her judgment on a serial killer, he’d have to also accept that her assessment of his ex-wife’s new boyfriend was likely to be accurate as well. He scowled down at the steering wheel, pounding it with his fist. He’d navigated the freeway exit, but now the road split and he was in the wrong lane. He watched as his turn-off slid past in the rear-view mirror.
“Cripes.” He sighed as he found himself sailing into the tangle of midday weekend traffic in the shopping district of Tacoma.
CHAPTER 12
SHIELDING HIS FINGER WITH A handkerchief, the killer rang the bell and waited. A seagull flew overhead, screaming into the sky, and he heard the muted response of its mates. The door opened and he was surprised to see that the big man himself had answered the summons.
“Hello,” the homeowner gave a sheepish shrug. “Yes, I’m doing butler duty. Dixon is out on errands and it’s just me and the cook for now.” He smiled and gestured the killer into his house. “Jane is waiting for me in Paris and the rest of the staff is at liberty. I’m late for a meeting, so I’m a bit rushed, I’m afraid. Is there something I can do for you?”
“It sounds like this is a bad time. I hoped you might show me your atrium. We spoke about it at the library fund-raiser after Better Homes and Gardens featured that layout and you mentioned—”
“Oh, sure, sure. I can give you a quick look now and we can schedule a more in-depth tour for another time. Come on back.”
The killer shouldered his duffle bag and followed. He noted, as they passed the security control panel, that the alarm system was deactivated. He lagged behind just long enough to use his handkerchief to press the button for video surveillance, turning that off, as well. He knew how to watch for cameras and had used oblique angles to keep his face hidden as he’d walked on to the property from a neighbor’s empty house. He’d bargained that the man wouldn’t be able to resist showing off his new pet project, and they walked to the core of the house, a large glass cube with a vaulted framework ceiling, left mostly open to the sky. Beautifully landscaped miniature lawns merged with beds of plants and seating areas on raised, hardwood decks. In the center, a marble-trimmed rectangular pond housed exotic koi and lily pads.
“This is spectacular. Did you have a hand in the design?”
A modest flap of the arm. “Conceptually, yes, and a few of the little touches are mine, as well. For instance,” he turned and bent over an arrangement of pygmy palms, pointing out a network of bamboo boxes. The killer was curious about the boxes, but resigned himself to never knowing their purpose. He deployed the taser into the broad back and watched the electrodes attach, one under each shoulder blade.
He had to work quickly now. He pulled on thin latex gloves, fastening waterproof booties over his shoes and donning a plastic raincoat, zipping it to the chin. He reached into the duffle for the knife and felt a feeble tug at his left shoe. The homeowner had made a grab for him, an uncoordinated and doomed attempt, but the killer checked the elastic enclosure of his shoe cover to ensure it was intact. He rolled the man over onto his back, tipped his head as if about to deliver CPR, and drew the blade across his throat in a quick, smooth motion.
A spurt of crimson jetted across the front of the plastic raincoat, but the fountain quickly waned and soon the man sprawled in ultimate relaxation on the soft grass of his prize-winning atrium, his blood watering the grass, eyes turned heavenward. The killer brought forth the sticks and stones, arranging them as he’d been taught. He swiped the cotton blood banner through the river of red and returned it to the duffle. Now for the cook.
He found her at the butcher block, slicing carrots. He watched for a moment as she added disks rendered from one carrot to the growing mound of vegetables and reached for another. Smooth, pink chicken breast rested on a cutting board and glass pinch bowls held spices, rich in color and fragrance. A small measuring cup held a dark liquid he guessed to be tamari and there was a bottle of wine. Her knife produced a rhythmic chopping sound. It half mesmerized him and might have saved her life if she hadn’t suddenly turned and looked at him, as if feeling his presence. He used his own knife, then, and she dropped to the clean-scrubbed floor, uttering a keening wail that hung in the air with the smell of garlic.
He knelt over her to retrieve his blade and caught, with the tail of his eye, a flash of movement. He ducked, but caught a blow on his left shoulder. He dropped beside the dead cook and rolled away, coming up into a crouch and clutching his knife. The butler was back. He held a saute pan in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
“You’re done for,” he croaked in a warbling voice, brandishing the fry pan. “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”
CHAPTER 13
RILEY WATCHED HER BLOOD MIX with water and disappear down the drain. It ran down her leg from where she’d cut herself shaving and slipped away into the void. The sight compelled her. She tore her gaze away but the image remained, imprinted on the layers of her mind. Down the drain, into the void.
She toweled herself and stepped from the shower. Running a comb through her hair, she avoided the mirror, staring instead at the specks of granite in the countertop, counting the shades of gray. She pulled on jeans and a light sweater, fighting a heaviness that threatened to drag her to the floor.
In the kitchen, she put on the tea kettle and sat at the table, flipping through a stack of letters and bills, pushing them away, unread. Silence stretched through the house, filling the cracks and spaces, pressing on her. Jim used to fill these spaces, and Tanner. In place of silence, there used to be music. Riley felt her mind wander to Anne Naysmith, like a tongue wanders to a sore spot in the mouth, prodding, waking the pain.
The release of the movie, The Lady In The Van, coincided too closely with the disaster in Riley’s own life, and she’d stayed out of the theater. She avoided any talk of the film, but knew more about it already than she wanted to. The movie’s subject, Miss Mary Shepherd, had been a gifted pianist, on her way to a successful concert career which was derailed, as far as Riley could discern, by mental instability and misfortune. She’d spent the rest of her life living in a van, parked in the driveway of a man who’d befriended her. As horrifying as this was for Riley to consider, it was really Anne Naysmith who haunted her.
In the 1960s, Anne had been a promising concert pianist, after studying at the Royal Academy of
Music with Harold Craxton and Liza Fuchsova. Something had gone wrong for her, like something had gone wrong for Riley, and she ended up a bag lady on the streets of London, where she wandered for decades until she was hit by a lorry in the Chiswick High Road and killed.
The development of Anne’s career, her performance repertoire, the critic’s assessments of her strengths and abilities, in many ways paralleled Riley’s own. And her pianistic demise, like Riley’s, involved the loss of the man in her life. Riley thought about Anne a lot, though she tried not to, because this mental path always ended in melodrama. Perhaps she, Riley, should cut out the years of wandering and just get right to the truck.
The chair squealed across the floor as she abruptly pushed back from the table and went to the stove, switching on the countertop television as she passed to stem the flow of silence. A news program came up on the screen, a special edition covering Seattle’s hottest topics.
“…continue to draw connections?”
“Well, Lisa, at this point we can only speculate how the Puget Sound Slasher chooses his victims.
“True. Everyone in the region should be exercising an extra degree of caution. We have the Slasher on one hand and Mt. Rainier on the other. What’s a citizen to do?”
“You make a good point. Volcanologists say that if Rainier erupts, it could be the biggest natural disaster ever to hit the U.S.”
“Scary thought. I did a little research this morning—”
“No! You? Research?”
“Yes, I did, Lisa, and I found out that the Indian name for Mt. Rainier is Tahoma. It means ‘giant slumbering in a cave’. What does that tell you?”
“It reminds me that with Rainier’s cloud cover, the giant could wake up howling and we’d never see it happening. We might not know until—”
Riley hit the off button. The prattle was worse than the silence and she just couldn’t stuff another worry in her head at this point. At least the volcano and the killer pulled media attention away from last night’s failure, not that she rated high enough for a morning news show.
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 5