PROLOGUE
The sun had set long, long ago.
The streets of Seattle became a very different place when it was dark. Let’s be honest, even during the day, things had a tendency to be a bit bleak in the Pacific Northwest. But after dark, things got downright creepy.
A light drizzle, nothing more than a clear late summer night for anyone who had grown up here, weighed down Abby’s bleach-blonde hair. She had not grown up here. For her, this much precipitation was the rough equivalent of a downpour. Phoenix, Arizona wasn’t known for its abundant annual rainfall.
How she had ended up here she knew very well, but couldn’t believe to this day. A guy. It was always a guy, wasn’t it? A boy and his band, wanting to test the waters in a bigger city, but without the balls to head to Vegas or L.A. She should’ve known then.
Now, a year and a half later, the band had broken up, and the boyfriend had headed out somewhere for parts unknown. And Abby? Abby was stuck in a lease with a job that paid just well enough that she didn’t want to leave it, but not well enough for her to ever really get ahead.
Tonight was the first night she had gone out on her own since the breakup three months ago. She’d grabbed a couple of the girls from work and jetted down to the Foundation Nightclub, a local hotspot just a couple of blocks away from Pike Place Market.
It was a little touristy, sure, but Abby was still new enough to Seattle that being a tourist was okay by her. The drinks were expensive, but she didn’t normally have to worry too much about that. And the guys there were a bit more upscale than her grungy ex.
But after both of her friends had gotten picked up and it had started getting late, Abby had decided to head home. Drinking alone in a bar just felt way too pathetic.
The problem with that? Abby couldn’t remember where she had parked. Maybe that last cosmopolitan had been a bad idea. She would’ve hailed a cab and come back for her VW bug tomorrow, but in looking for the parking lot where she’d left it, she’d entered into some much narrower streets that were pretty quiet, even for this area. There wasn’t a cab anywhere in sight.
She pulled off her heels, feeling the wet cool of the sidewalk soothe her aching feet. Going out on a Friday after work always sounded like such a great idea, but man, was she beat. Next time she planned an outing with the girls, it would be on a Saturday. And the girls would be ones who wouldn’t abandon her at the first sign of a smile from a cute guy.
Whatever. She was over it.
Now that the clatter of her own heels wasn’t ringing in her ears, Abby could’ve sworn she heard something. She stopped for a moment, but whatever it was had dissipated into the surrounding mist.
How many times had she thought she was being followed late at night, only to realize it was her over-active imagination? Abby chuckled to herself and started walking again. Time to fish her phone out of the bag she called her purse and figure out where the hell she was.
Rummaging through the accumulated crap of at least three years—once Abby found a purse she liked, she used it until it disintegrated—she finally got her fingers around her smartphone and swiped down the screen to wake it up.
No reception. Sonofa…if she hadn’t signed a two-year contract with this idiotic company before moving out here, she would’ve ditched them a long time ago. There were more holes in her coverage here than in a fine piece of Swiss cheese.
Glancing around, Abby looked for any street sign that might look even remotely familiar. As she spun around in a circle, she saw a dark blur move into the shadows cast by a building that blocked the hazy light from a nearby streetlamp. Was that the direction from which she had heard that sound earlier? Hard to tell in the dark, with all the drizzle.
She was being ridiculous. It was just some person, or maybe even a stray animal trying to hug the sides of the businesses to take advantage of their canopies to keep the moisture off. No one was following her. Of course not.
But somehow, as she started walking again, her steps were more purposeful, more rapid, less likely to veer to one side or another. That wasn’t being paranoid. She was just tired of being stuck out in the rain. Time to get home.
As she teetered somewhere between a walk and a trot, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps on pavement. That couldn’t have been her imagination, could it? Just because every other time it had ended up being her own fears didn’t mean it would every time, right? And honestly, who was she afraid of seeing her panic? It’s not like there was anyone there to laugh at her.
Except the one who was actually following her.
Screw it. She was running.
Picking up speed fueled by fear and adrenaline, she rounded a corner, then ducked into an alley, hoping to lose her pursuer with a few twists and turns. Maybe a serious chase would deter her pursuer.
But with every step she took, it seemed, her shadow gained ground. The footsteps were clearer, more resonant. She could hear every footfall, every echo ringing back from the walls on either side. There was something unusual about the sound, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.
The almost absolute darkness of this area was pierced as she rounded yet another corner. The warm yellow glow of an open business beckoned. What kind of business would be open at 1:30 in the morning gave her very little pause. Right now, an open door and light was just the kind of safe haven she was looking for.
She whipped through the door, pushing the swinging glass in front of her, heedless of the force she put into it. The door slammed into the wall, ricocheting closed with the combined momentum of the spring-loaded action and the reversed inertia of her initial push.
Safely inside, Abby took a deep, shuddering breath. Whether or not she had imagined the whole episode, that had been one of the scariest things she had ever experienced. She lifted her head to see where it was that she had landed.
It was a Laundromat. The ambient warmth from the never-ceasing action of the industrial-sized driers against one wall mingled with the moisture of the Seattle air to create a muggy swamp of an atmosphere. She dropped her heels to the floor and slipped them back onto her feet.
Several of the dryers spun with clothes inside, but there was no one around, as far as Abby could see. Probably left to grab a coffee at some 24-hour café. Or just a coffee shop. It was Seattle. There shouldn’t be a lack of coffee shops.
Abby would’ve preferred some company at this point, but the heat and light were doing wonders to slow her beating pulse down to non-life-threatening levels. She wandered up one of the aisles of washing machines, playing with the old quarter feeder slots on the tops of the machines. This Laundromat was old.
As she was about to get to the end of the aisle she was moving down, Abby heard the front door open. Her pulse ratcheted up once more, even though she tried to convince herself that no would-be rapist would try anything in a public place. Especially one so well lit. With glass doors, for crying out loud.
She continued telling herself that until the lights went off.
In spite of herself, she let out a muffled whimper of terror. This was so much worse than any horror film she’d ever seen. There was someone in here with her. And that someone had flipped off the lights. That was not the act of a person who was just here to pick up his dry clothes.
She stifled the sound of her breath as best she could, wishing that she hadn’t put her heels back on. Moving as silently as possible, Abby groped along the tops of the machines, looking for anything she might be able to use to defend herself. Nothing. She guided herself by the dim glow of the indicator lights on the tops of the machines, the only lights that shone here, in this death trap.
Was there a back exit? She had no idea. But she sure as hell wasn’t going back up to the front of the store, with whomever it was lurking there.
Stepping carefully, doing everything she could to keep her heels from clacking on the cracked tile floor, Abby made her way to the back of the Laundromat, trying in vain to remember the brief glimpse she had had of the layout of
the place before the lights went out. Just when she was about to collapse from the overwhelming tension, she saw one of the most welcome sights of her life.
As she moved beyond the end of the aisle, there, just beyond the old wooden folding table in front of her, was a dimly glowing EXIT sign. There was a back door. Abby could slip out quietly and get to a more public place. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but she could see the way there.
She moved around the table, running her finger along the tabletop as she went. Her hand came into contact with what felt like a box of powder detergent, a theory confirmed in the low light from the sign. As she rounded the corner, she discerned duct tape holding up one of the legs of the dilapidated table.
Hurrying toward the beckoning light, Abby was completely unprepared for the elbow that seemed to come from out of nowhere to land squarely against her jaw.
White lights starred in front of her vision. Her perception rocked back and forth, spinning with the force of the blow. She clawed upward blindly with her nails, scoring a track along what felt like the person’s forearm. There was a low grunt in response.
Her attacker was somehow in front of her, blocking her access to the door. Abby scrabbled her way backward, coming up against the folding table. Her grappling hands found the box of detergent. She swung the box around, spreading the powder in a large arc where she guessed the assailant was.
A muttered curse confirmed at least partial contact.
It wasn’t enough. She knew it wasn’t enough. Abby moved back around the table, feeling the tape under her hands. Wait. She grabbed beneath the table, gripping the leg in both hands as she twisted.
Luckily, whoever had done the jury-rigging on the table leg hadn’t done a very thorough job. The leg came free, the tape parting and tearing from the force of her desperation. The table wobbled for a moment before stabilizing itself on its remaining three legs.
Feeling along the length of the wooden leg, Abby could feel the jutting nails at its top. She couldn’t have asked for a better weapon with which to fight off her attacker.
She watched as a dark lump separated itself from the darker corner of the folding area, where the light from the sign couldn’t reach. There was something strange about the shape. Something about the way the form moved…
There was no time for assessment. The shape was moving fast. Abby swung her table leg as hard and as fast as she could, landing a blow on the shadow’s shoulder. Another grunt and a slight ripping sound as she pulled her makeshift club back proved the efficacy of her weapon.
But before Abby could land another blow, her assailant closed the gap between them and landed another blow to the other side of her face, snapping her head to the side. A hand scrabbled for the table leg, ripping it out of Abby’s hand as if she weren’t gripping it at all. Abby was left defenseless.
“Please,” she begged, looking into the shadows of the person’s face. The head lifted slightly at her plea, the faint glow from the EXIT sign limning the harsh lines and angles of the nose and cheekbones.
Abby gasped at what she saw, but the gasp was hampered by the cloth her attacker had placed over her mouth and nose. The cloth that smelled of chemicals.
Nothingness reached up to embrace Abby and dragged her down into its fuzzy embrace.
CHAPTER 1
The leg was sticking out of the dryer, leaving the foot, ankle and part of the calf exposed. Well, the foot wasn’t exposed. It had a shoe covering it. A shoe with a three-and-a-half-inch heel, along with a slight platform at the toe. Fuchsia. The leg formed a forty-seven degree angle with the rest of the machine, that angle drifting up from the picture in front of him and entering Detective Robi Darcmel’s mind as a glowing cipher of information that joined with the others already arranging themselves in a shimmering line.
Shining a penlight into the dark recesses of the dryer’s drum, Darc attempted to catch a glimpse of the head. If it were shaved… But the angle of the body obscured his view. There was nothing further to be gained by using the flashlight.
Darc had been on the scene for seven minutes and twenty-one seconds already. He had gleaned all the facts from the rest of the Laundromat and was now at an impasse. Not an impasse of logic, which would have made sense to him, but an impasse of rules.
According to the Code of Criminal Procedure, Darc was not allowed to move the body. Only the ME could do so. By Darc’s calculations, the coroner would not be at the crime scene for another eight minutes, at a minimum. That was eight minutes of wasted time in Darc’s investigation.
Debating the merits of disregarding the regulations, Darc attempted to peer into the inside of the dryer through the crack in the door held open by the angled limb. As he suspected, there was not enough light for him to be able to see much of anything. One more reason that was tipping the scale in favor of him moving the body.
As Darc moved his hand up to the dryer door, a voice rang out in the Laundromat. A deep, booming voice. Darc’s superior officer, Captain Merle.
“Don’t even think about it, Darc.”
“It has already been thought of, Captain. The thought was also processed and fully reasoned out. I was in the implementation phase when you arrived.” The captain had a penchant for non-specific language that Darc found troubling in one who was meant to be his superior officer. Darc did what he could to correct the failing, although his efforts did not seem to be fully appreciated.
The captain wiped his hand across his face, pulling his skin down in a way that exaggerated his jowls. From an aesthetic viewpoint, that was less than pleasing. It was not personally troubling to Darc, but it might be worth mentioning to him at some future point in time. Captain Merle heaved a big sigh, then looked around the Laundromat.
“Where’s your partner?”
“McGarren is headed to New Mexico. I need to move the body. Now.” The urgency here was plain, if Captain Merle would simply think things through completely. With every minute that passed without gleaning the information that only the body could tell them, the killer put more and more distance between them.
“Wait. What?” The captain seemed confused. Perhaps Darc had spoken too quickly. That often happened when he was communicating with other members of the department. “McGarren’s in New Mexico? When did that happen?”
“Yesterday at lunch. He had the pastrami on rye and a Diet Coke. And he is not in New Mexico. He is traveling to New Mexico.” Darc spoke slowly and enunciated carefully. Perhaps that would help with the evident communication issue with which the captain was struggling. McGarren had often told Darc that he went too quickly. Well, what he had actually said contained multiple expletives, but that had been the salient point he had taken from the conversation.
The captain had not said anything in response, so Darc inferred from his silence that the topic had concluded. He moved closer to the dryer. “Once again, it is imperative that I move the body.”
“So, let me get this straight. McGarren up and left yesterday at lunch. For New Mexico. For no reason?”
This process of communication was inefficient. Speaking more slowly had not seemed to help. Perhaps Darc had not taken the exercise far enough. Another attempt seemed to be in order. Using all of his articulators and resonators to their fullest effect, Darc continued at half the speed of the last time.
“McGarren had a reason. He said, ‘I can’t take this any more. I’m moving to New Mexico.’ Now, in regards to the body—”
“Where is he now?” The captain seemed to be fixated upon McGarren’s location. It might be that if Darc could clarify that with more detail, he could then remain focused on the important matter of Darc moving the body before the M.E. arrived.
The logic streams of information inside Darc’s mind glowed the blue-green that indicated near certainty. “It is 1,437 miles from Seattle to Albuquerque. Accounting for standard speed limits along Interstate 5, it would take 22.1 hours total. Readjusting for McGarren’s innate indolence, that would put him somewhere close to the border bet
ween Idaho and Utah.”
Captain Merle shook his head while rubbing his palm against his forehead. “McGarren gone. This is a nightmare. I’m having a nightmare.”
“With all due respect, Captain, McGarren was not of much help during the vast majority of our investigations. He was very skilled at ordering coffee, but had little to offer at a crime scene.” Seeing that the issue now finally seemed to be resolved, Darc made another attempt at redirecting the distracted captain back to the matter at hand. “Captain. I need to move the body.”
The captain waved his hand vaguely. “No. You can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here. You know that.”
That response was… troubling. “Captain, without moving the body, I cannot ascertain enough about this murder to proceed. Every moment that passes increases the percentage of possibility that the perpetrator will escape my reach.”
“Please, Darc. No perp is beyond your reach. You’ll just have to wait for the M.E. like everyone else does.” The captain moved closer to the foot that was sticking out of the dryer, apparently examining the shoe.
“The regulation stating that the body must not be moved until the medical examiner is present is outdated,” Darc explained. “It comes from a time when the local Sheriff was more than likely also the town butcher. I have the training and knowledge base to be able to move the body without tampering with or destroying any forensic evidence.”
“You do?” Captain Merle raised one thick eyebrow, an expression that could be interpreted as questioning, disdain or a nervous twitch. This was the gray area of non-logical emotions, and Darc had no frame of reference for this particular instance.
“I have memorized the manual.”
“Well, memorized or not, you aren’t touching the body.” The captain held up a finger as Darc began to protest. “Ah, ah! No. I said ‘no’.”
“Perhaps if I were to obtain permission from the M.E.?” At this juncture, the examiner should arrive within five-and-a-half minutes, so that, when combined with the captain’s clear intransigence, made the point largely moot for this particular crime scene. However, Darc wanted to assure himself that this never occurred again.
2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series Collection Page 21