“No sign of a break in. They’re probably off in the Bahamas or somewhere, but I can’t leave it. Everything looks fine through the windows, except that I saw a slice of spotless white kitchen floor with a single shoe lying in the middle of it.”
“That does seem ominous.”
“I’m going to break in. If I manage to trip an alarm and raise the police, all the better. We could use the help. Stay put.”
Riley watched him disappear once more around the back of the house. She waited. The light turned murky, dimming perceptibly, and time stretched on so long that she was sure something terrible had happened there, out of her view. She felt trapped. Should she venture behind the house and try to find him? Run for a neighbor’s house? Keep waiting? No, she couldn’t bear that.
She let herself quietly out of the car and stood, tense and still, like an animal sifting the air for danger signals. She took a few steps toward the house and froze in terror when the front door swung open. Relief flooded through her when she saw it was Nate. He walked over to join her, carrying an empty laundry basket, and the look on his face was grim.
“We’re late to the party,” he said.
CHAPTER 29
RICK SHIELDED HIMSELF AS BEST he could as debris continued to fall from the sky. Blobs of hot mud pelted down, along with burning chunks of wood, plastic, metal, cardboard, and unidentifiable bits and pieces. The mud, wicked hot at first, turned out to be a boon, acting as a lubricant while Rick worked to free himself from his metal prison.
He’d been amazed to find that all his parts were present and accounted for and that he could move them, independently. What he needed now, was to move them, as a unit, out of this mess. The vehicles he was sandwiched between had smashed together in such a way that the frame of the Ford had cradled him, creating a space where he survived without damage, though he was trapped now within it, as if the car had consciously protected him and meant to keep him.
He was up to his armpits in a crush of metal, plastic, and composite. He slathered the slimy mud over him, wherever he could reach, determining that his best option was to hoist himself up and out. He worked to find some leverage, inching up bit by bit, struggling to hold each gain as he made it. It was exhausting labor and took an age, the Ford groaning and screeching under him. At last, he slid free of the metal womb, and the car slumped and settled with a sigh of resignation. He was startled to hear a baby cry.
He stumbled along beside the freeway, seeking the source of the bawling. A woman lay crumpled beside a mini-van that had been crushed against the median. He ran to her, lifted the limp, blond hair away from her face, and felt for a pulse. She was dead. In the mini-van, he found the crying baby, and a sibling, silent with wide, staring eyes, both strapped into child seats.
Heaven help us, what a nightmare.
He reached into the van and pressed down on the horn, sending an S.O.S. He thought the children were safest left in their protective seats until help arrived, but he managed to climb up into the space between the two of them. A pacifier was clipped to the strap of the baby’s carrier and Rick guided it into her mouth. She sucked at it, her eyes still welling with tears. The other child, a boy, had not uttered a sound. His eyes were unfocused and unblinking as he spiraled down, overtaken by shock. Rick took the little hands in his own and rubbed them gently, speaking in a soft voice.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’ll be all right.”
He repeated the words and hoped to heaven they were true. He heard shouts and movement and leaned toward the open door.
“Over here!”
Emergency responders swarmed the wreckage. Two helmeted men helped Rick climb from the mangled van and attended to the children. Rick wanted to stay, to do what he could to help, but he knew he had to maintain focus on the imperative he’d given himself. So much death, so much damage, inflicted by a volcano. If he persevered with his own mission, he might prevent untold death and damage from a killer of another kind. He left the van, surprised at how bereft he felt, and walked among the mass of broken twisted vehicles.
The freeway was a hellish mess of the dead, the mourning, and those who could go either way. An amazing number of rescue workers were on the scene, and Rick was touched and humbled by their calm and compassionate demeanor. All around him, he saw courage and fortitude and felt a stab of pride for his countrymen, rallying to the occasion.
He worked his way through the mess and found a cop who hooked him up with a buddy, and he eventually caught a ride to his apartment where he showered, dressed, and bolted down three bowls of cereal and a slice of cold pizza.
During his ride home, he’d confirmed his suspicions that all reasonable land and water routes to Mountain Vista were cut off. They’d driven through a hot spot where he was able to raise a couple of bars on his cell phone and he’d briefly spoken to a friend in the media, begging him for helicopter transport.
“Forget about it, buddy. Look around, it’s Armageddon. Batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. You can get back with your partner when things settle down some.”
“I need to get out there now. He needs backup.”
“Get him some local help.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t reach anyone. I got lucky reaching you.”
“Not so lucky, friend. Gotta go. Sorry.”
Rick knew he was up against it. He was being put to the test in an extraordinary situation. Local resources were strained beyond anything on record. Surely, allowances would be made, a measure of slack granted him.
He finished his make-shift meal and found his Mustang in the parking lot. He drove his car slowly through downtown Seattle. It looked like a post-apocalyptic movie set—deserted, dirty sky, gray silent buildings, streets populated only by a few wandering homeless. The sound of his engine echoed in the steel and concrete canyon. He held his burner phone, trying to find a place with bars, a cell tower that was still transmitting.
He got a blip on his screen and pulled over. He made the call, connecting with a person on the other end.
“I’ve got the name and possible location of a highly probable suspect and I’m doing everything I can to apprehend him, but all my routes are cut off. You understand that, right? Can you help me out?”
Silence.
“Look,” Rick said, “I need to get to my partner and I’m dealing with extenuating circumstances.”
“We cannot help you, Mr. Jimenez,” came the cold voice. “Do it, or don’t.”
The line went dead and Rick slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He’d worked years for this opportunity and Rainier had ruined it all.
CHAPTER 30
MARIE WATCHED JESS AT THE wet bar, greeting, touching, spreading her poisonous charm. Her husky voice and fluid movements were mesmerizing and Marie could understand, but not absolve, the fascinated male attention she commanded. Jess moved across the room, graceful and confident, and out into the hallway. Marie got up and followed. In the kitchen, she found Jess standing on tip-toe, reaching for a box of herbal tea on a high shelf.
“Are you taller than me?” Jess asked. “Can you reach those peppermint tea bags?”
Marie gave them a half-hearted swipe. “Nope.”
Jess pulled a chair over from the breakfast nook and climbed up. Marie leaned against the counter and watched, arms folded over her chest.
“Pretty historic day, huh?” She said to Jess. “The kind where you’ll always remember what you were doing when.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“So, what were you doing? When the eruption hit?”
Jess had the box of tea in her hand and returned to floor level. She looked at Marie with a hint of amusement that infuriated her.
“When the big guy blew? Hmmm, I went flower picking this afternoon.” Jess opened a drawer and started digging through kitchen utensils.
“Really?” Marie wanted to slam the drawer shut on that slender hand, wipe the smug look from that loathsome face. “How’d that go?” she asked.
&
nbsp; Jess closed her eyes, as if savoring a memory. “It was amazing,” she answered. Then opening her eyes, she looked at Marie. “What were you doing?”
Marie felt a pressure mounting within her, mirroring Mt. Rainier.
“Laundry,” she replied through tight lips.
Jess found what she wanted in the drawer, shook her silver-blond hair, and turned to leave. As she passed Marie, a single sardonic word slipped from her throat, quivering in the air between them.
“Historic.”
Then she was gone. Marie stood in the kitchen, alone and shaking with rage.
CHAPTER 31
NATE TRIED NOT TO DWELL on what should have been happening and focused, instead, on the series of curveballs coming his way. He worked the Explorer’s radio again, but was unable to transmit or receive anything. He tried his cell phone and Riley’s, and the landline in the house, in an attempt to reach the local authorities. He’d searched the house for some effective means of communication, but he was out of options and there was no telling how much time would pass before he could get someone out here to the scene. The sky was getting dark, growing thick with gloom and portent. He refused to let it affect his mood.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got to work with.” He forced a note of confidence into his voice as he rummaged through the items in the Explorer’s trunk space. He filled the laundry basket with boxes of collection swabs, tubes, small white slider-boxes, plastic bags, paper bags, tape, and latex gloves.
“What are you doing?” Riley asked.
“Normally, we call in a team to process the site, but I think I’m on my own here.”
“What can I do to help?” Riley asked.
“You know I respect your competence and I appreciate your help, but this is a fairly formal process and has to be handled a particular way. Best thing you can do for me is stay put where I know you’re okay. How about the front room of the house? There are books and magazines to keep you company.”
On the porch, he handed her a paper coat, an elasticized hair cover, a face mask, latex gloves, and waterproof shoe covers.
“Suit up, please. Let’s limit contamination of the scene as much as possible.”
They pulled on the protective coverings and entered the house. Riley settled onto a plush sofa with an issue of Architectural Digest, giving him a little salute as he passed into the hallway. He examined the security system and made a note to check the video surveillance records. The house was without electrical power now, and Nate surmised no one had been alive to switch on the generator when the power went out. The state-of-the-art security system, taken with the absence of a break-in, squared with his theory that the killer had been known to Rico and welcomed into his home.
His reconnoiter had revealed three bodies and he needed, now, to fill the role of first responder, investigator, and crime scene technician. He’d found a camera in the trunk and used it to record both stills and video documentation of the three bodies and the areas between and around them. Then he examined the scenes and made careful notes, understanding that much would hang on this initial processing of the site. Finally, he moved to the bodies, adding more notes and photographs, using a probe thermometer to determine core temperature, noting the degree of rigor mortis and lividity, collecting anything of possible significance.
In the kitchen, he noted that the cook had been preparing a meal. He bagged the chef’s knife, stained with shreds of carrot, and every other knife in the kitchen, but he didn’t think any of them would prove to be the murder weapon. There were smudged and bloody footprints between the kitchen and atrium where Rico’s body rested, and he photographed them but doubted they’d reveal much. They were undefined and the killer had probably worn booties similar to what he and Riley were wearing.
In the atrium, he took careful photos of the altar and then bagged the pieces for examination by the experts. He’d secured the victim’s hands with paper bags, taped at the forearms, in case Rico had managed to strike at the killer and carried evidence under his fingernails. He’d collected every piece of evidence he could think of, other than the bodies themselves, labeled them meticulously, and sat at the kitchen table, logging them onto a submissions sheet. He would lock everything in the rear compartment of the Explorer, doing the best he could to preserve the integrity of the evidence.
His hand cramped from continuous writing. He stopped and took a moment to shake out the kinks. Working a crime scene usually involved a team of experts and a fair amount of time. He was one man under the gun and he had never felt so inadequate.
Sighing, he picked up the pen and persevered.
CHAPTER 32
THE EERIE SILENCE OF THE HOUSE was getting to Riley. She’d thumbed through the magazines and grown bored with the coffee table book detailing the history of designer labels. She stood and paced beside the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the inlet and wondered if, during daylight on a clear day, Mt. Rainier would be visible. The atmosphere in the house was oppressive. She could no longer sit and it felt like there wasn’t enough air to breathe. She stepped out onto the front patio, removed her surgical draperies, and walked across the lawn to the west side of the house, drawing in great gasps of fresh air, waiting for the pent-up frustration to seep out of her.
Here, she could see the last of the sunset, deep red streaks running through a rusty orange. The sky was dirty. She stood at the water’s edge, alone, vulnerable. The Puget Sound Slasher had been here, might be here still, watching her from some vantage point, moving in for an attack. She roiled with some powerful emotion. It twisted within her, turning acid in her stomach and chewing its way up through her chest. A few hours ago she had watched her blood spiral down the drain, eyed a row of pill bottles, run her finger down the blade of a knife, craving an end to the relentless dissatisfaction, the feeling of drifting, the niggling of some undefinable guilt. She had no right, now, to fear for the life she’d held so cheaply and realized, with surprise, that it wasn’t fear, but anger that bubbled within her.
As the colors faded from the sky and gulls reeled overhead, their melancholy cries providing a plaintive backdrop, Riley stood with arms crossed, kneading her flesh, chewing her lip, trying to trace through a spaghetti pile of intertwined possibilities to identify the source of the rage which built within her.
She encountered an abundance of potential culprits. She could say Mt. Rainier had chosen to blow its top on the weekend of her return to the stage, compounding the devastation of her failed performance. She could say Nate had appeared on the scene and dragged her into this sordid mess, forcing her to engage when she really just wanted to retreat. She could say Teren had started poking and prodding at their comfortable relationship, suggesting he wanted more from her than she could give him.
If she tried, she could find fault with her agent, her sponsors, her audience, the venue, the repertoire, the price of tea in China. She could be angry at Jim for dying in a fire. He was a firefighter, for crying out loud. There was such cruel irony in his death. And she could be furious at him for allowing their son to die with him. She was pissed at the both of them for going off together and leaving her here.
She was irate with the teenager who threw plums at the house and the paperboy who missed the porch. But when she followed the final twisting noodle, it led straight back to her, as she’d known it must. It was an elusive anger that refused to hold still for examination. She didn’t know how to understand it, live with it, or conquer it. She could only acknowledge it as the cause of her failure, on stage and off, and with this acknowledgment the rising balloon in her chest popped and settled down to simmer in her gut.
Her concentration was disturbed by a rush of cold water over her feet. She looked down to see that the waves had swallowed the beach and were creeping up the lawn. Startled, she veered off, jogging along the shoreline, back to where the bridge jutted out to meet the mainland. The water, here, was agitated, impatient, wailing against its confinement, and the bridge was minutes away from being e
ngulfed, cutting off their exit from the island.
She turned and ran.
CHAPTER 33
RICK GAVE UP ON FINDING police or military transport to Mountain Vista. It was utter chaos. The disaster spread over several counties, each with its various emergency organizations, covering separate, sometimes overlapping jurisdictions, and reporting to different authorities. The situation was rife with confusion. Not only was Rick turned down; he was warned to stay out of the air space.
He focused on finding a private means, someone with a plane or helicopter who would fly him out to find Nate, but he’d struck out there, as well. He remembered thumbing through an issue of Forbes someone had left at the station and seeing an article about helicopter owners. He’d searched around, found the dog-eared magazine, and culled two names of local big shots. With all practical means of communication down, he had to track them physically, actually knocking doors. He got no joy from the first and was feeling pretty dismal about his chances with the second guy.
Still, he had to pursue every avenue. Ironically, the man’s residence was in Mason County, so he had to hope he was a workaholic, like many of his ilk, and was in the office on a Saturday. Downtown again, he parked the Mustang, and started working out how to get into the high-rise commercial building. There was a button for a bell which he pushed repeatedly until he realized it wouldn’t make any noise without power. He held his badge to the glass, pounding and shouting, hoping for a response.
Finally, an irate fellow in a rumpled suit let him in.
“What do you want? There’s no one here today. State of emergency. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“You’re here.”
“Uh-huh. My house was in Puyallup. I got nowhere else to go.”
“Oh, man, I’m sorry. Your family…?”
“Live in Ohio. Divorced. I’m married to my work, so here I am. How can I help you?”
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 10