“Oh, hell,” said Hawk. “I forgot drinks.”
“I’ve got it,” said Wren. She bought them some fountain drinks, which they filled up on their way out to the picnic tables. She got root beer. Hawk got Dr. Pepper.
They sat at one of the picnic tables and the river rushed by. It had rained lately, and it was muddy and bloated. Still, the view was peaceful, she thought. If only she didn’t keep thinking about buckets of worms. Yuck.
“Well,” she said. “Burgers at a bait and tackle shop.”
“I can’t believe you never came here,” said Hawk. “Or, no, maybe they opened up after you left. Anyway, wait until you taste the burger.”
She shrugged, but she unwrapped her burger, which was huge and messy. Sauteed onions were slithering out, along with drips of mayonnaise. She had to wrap half the burger back up in the wax paper to get it to her mouth and get a bite. When she did, her eyes popped open wide.
“See?” said Hawk, grinning.
“Oh, my God,” she said around her bite.
He chuckled.
She swallowed. “That is amazing. That’s the best burger I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Oh, my God.” She took another bite.
He watched her eat, laughing a little. He started to unwrap his own burger.
She set hers down, chewing, eyes closed in ecstasy. She swallowed. “I mean, when I saw this place, I was like, ‘Wow, classy date,’ but now I understand.”
“What can I say? This is class.”
She laughed. “Listen, about this date thing, though.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you taking it back?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s probably not a great idea, you know, what with… everything.”
“Everything?”
She took a bite of her burger. Oh, wow, that was really good. She got lost in the taste for several moments. When she came back to earth, Hawk was getting up from the table. “Where are you going?”
“Ketchup,” he said, pointing. There was a little table over by the door with bottles of ketchup and malt vinegar.
“Oh, get some of that vinegar too!” she called after him.
He grinned at her over his shoulder. He snagged some ketchup and vinegar and brought them back.
She seized the vinegar and began liberally sloshing it over her fries. Then she picked one up and popped in her mouth. She moaned. “Oh,” she said around her mouthful. “That’s the way fries should be eaten. So good.”
He was still laughing. “You’re, uh… well, at least you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Well, the food’s good.”
“But you don’t want to be on a date with me.” He dipped a fry in ketchup and surveyed it.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”
He popped the fry in his mouth.
She sighed heavily.
He went back to his burger.
She waited while he ate another bite of it.
Finally, he swallowed. He set down the burger. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You said yes. Why’d you say yes?”
“Hawk, you know, all that history with us…”
He was staring at her. When she didn’t continue, he said, “Do you still think I killed people?”
“I… no, not really.” She furrowed her brow. But was that true? She ate another fry. Damn, malt vinegar was the food of the gods. “But you do have to stay a suspect, because I haven’t eliminated you. And if I’m investigating you, we really can’t go on dates.”
He sucked on his Dr. Pepper. “I wish I had a beer.”
“Do you drink constantly?” she said.
“I hear you’re at Billy’s most nights,” he said evenly, looking her straight in the eyes.
“Shut up,” she said.
“Why’d you come back here?” he said. “You all right? Did something happen?”
She took a big bite of her burger instead of answering the question.
“Little bird—”
“You’re not boyfriend material,” she blurted. “You drink too much, and I hear you spend every weekend doing acid with Major, and you haven’t had a steady job in, well, ever.”
“Ouch,” he said mildly.
“I’m sorry, it’s just… we can’t do this.”
“So, why’d you say yes?”
She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
He set his burger down and fixed her with his gray eyes.
She squirmed. “Because I had a little-girl crush on you when we were kids. But now…”
“Yes?”
She picked up her burger. “I feel nothing,” she told the burger.
“Nothing?” he said. “Nothing at all?”
Why was her heart racing? She fumbled with some napkins, blotting at some barely-there stain on the table.
“I don’t believe that, little bird,” he said in a low voice.
“Well, you should,” she said. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter what I feel, because, like I said, I can’t date you until I eliminate you as a suspect.” She met his gaze for a moment. “You sure you don’t have an alibi?”
“Pretty sure.”
She got out her phone and scrolled through to some notes she’d made. She slid it across the table. “Those dates. Any one of them. Can someone vouch for you?”
He tapped the screen. “This is a Saturday. I was with Major. I’m always with Major on Saturdays.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Not good enough?”
“Well, Major’s a suspect too,” she said. “If you’re each other’s alibis, it’s just…”
“You saying, like, Major and I did it together?”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t seem like the work of two killers.” She took her phone back.
They were quiet.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said in a soft voice. “The burgers here are really good.”
“No problem,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Oh, good. You’re here,” said Reilly from the doorway to Wren’s new office. She’d been in here at the crack of dawn that morning, getting everything set up. She’d never had an office before, and she was a little bit excited.
Before getting accepted to the FBI Academy, she’d worked at a police station, but she hadn’t been in the field. Instead, she’d done dispatch, talking to the cars out in the field over walkie-talkies. She had a degree in English literature, and a minor in pre-law, but she’d nixed the idea of becoming a lawyer when she’d found out that she was actually signing up to become a small-business owner.
Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. She could have gotten a job with a firm, but that would have meant that she’d probably be mostly doing paperwork all the time, not actually being in a courtroom, which was what had attracted her to law in the first place. However, if she opened her own law firm, she’d be chasing down her clients for money, and she was a soft touch, so she’d probably be always letting them slide or working for less money than she was worth, and…
Anyway, dispatch.
She had all the police codes memorized, too.
“Looks good in here,” said Reilly.
“Thanks,” she said, beaming, feeling a little like a little kid showing off a drawing to an adult whose approval she wanted. That wasn’t how she viewed her relationship with Reilly, but he was basically her boss.
“You going to be busy in here for the rest of the day?” he said.
“Why?” she said.
“I was wondering how you would feel about a road trip.”
“Road trip,” she repeated.
“Getting out of here, going to look into something,” he said. “I looked into that phone number you gave me. I found the calls to your phone. I printed out what I got from the phone company. I say we go and talk to the guy who owns the phone.”
“The phone number of the David Song calls,” she said. “You did that?
For me?”
He spread his hands. “Well, for you, for the case. It’s weird, right? Same time as the murders start, this guy starts calling you. And he wants you back here, at the site of the murders.”
She furrowed her brow. “Does it really line up like that?”
“Yeah, he called you two days before the first girl was killed.”
She felt a little ill. “Wow, I didn’t realize.”
“Anyway, what do you think? Let’s go talk to him?”
She looked down at her outfit, which was what she usually wore. Jeans, a t-shirt, and her favorite leather jacket. “I don’t much look like a cop, do I? Should I go home and change?”
Reilly looked at her clothes and then looked down at his suit.
She laughed. “What am I saying? I don’t have anything to change into. It’s not as if I own professional clothes. Let’s go.”
* * *
When Spencer Collins answered the door to his apartment, he was wearing a David Song t-shirt. That was the name of the guy who had called her. Spencer Collins. She hadn’t gotten that far when she called him before, but Reilly had managed to dig it up when he was getting the phone records.
The David Song t-shirts were crass, in her opinion. People wore them like David Song was some kind of counter-culture figure like Che Guevara or something. But he wasn’t anything like that. It was disgusting.
Spencer was pretty freaked out when Reilly shoved a badge in his face. Of course, Reilly didn’t have jurisdiction out here. This part of Virginia was outside of the tri-state task force’s borders. But Reilly didn’t mention that.
“Hi there,” Reilly said. “Spencer Collins?”
“Uh, yeah?” said Spencer.
“I’m Detective Caius Reilly. This is my associate, Wren Delacroix. Wondering if we can ask you a few questions.”
“Wren Delacroix?” said Spencer. “It’s really you.”
“Wait,” said Wren. “You know who I am?”
“You’re Vivian’s daughter,” said Spencer.
“Can we come in?” said Reilly.
Spencer stepped aside, giving them access to his place. His apartment wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t too bad, either. His counters could use scrubbing, but his dishes were clean and in the dish drainer. The door opened onto the kitchen. He gestured for them to sit down at his kitchen table, which was covered in toast crumbs. Spencer swept them onto the floor with one arm, apologizing.
Reilly and Wren and sat down.
Spencer sat down too. “Why do you want to talk to me?”
“You said you had no idea about making those calls to my phone,” said Wren.
“Wait, that was you?” said Spencer. “I blacked out and called Wren fucking Delacroix? Holy shit.”
“Is that what happened?” said Reilly. “You blacked out and called her?”
“Well, it must be,” said Spencer. “I mean, how else did it happen? I have no memory of doing it, but I saw the calls in my phone. If I’d known it was you…” He shook his head.
“You’re a big fan, huh?” said Wren, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, yeah,” said Spencer. “I know everything about all the murders, about the FCL. I’ve even been thinking about dropping out of college and going up there, seeing if I can join up. Do you know if they let people do that?”
“You realize it’s not some movie, it’s real?” said Wren, feeling fury rising within her that she wasn’t even aware she possessed. “Real people died. Real people’s lives were ruined. David Song wasn’t some guy to idolize. He controlled people’s lives. He was a narcissistic bastard.”
Spencer was taken back. He stammered. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t… I mean, it’s not like I think David Song is so great or anything.”
“You’re wearing a David Song t-shirt.”
“Well, yeah, but not because of… of…” Spencer seemed to run out of steam.
Reilly cleared his throat.
Spencer turned to him.
“Are you lying about making those phone calls? Do you actually remember everything?”
“No,” said Spencer. “You know, I was hanging out with this guy who knew a lot about all those murders and stuff. We would smoke pot, drink beer. I mean, I don’t know exactly when I saw him, but I feel like the dates might line up. He was all about getting in touch with the Horned Lord, and here’s what I think happened. I must have had, like, a spiritual experience where I channeled the spirit of David Song. He communicated to you through me.”
Wren stiffened, because some part of her had almost believed this, even though she knew it was ridiculous.
“What did he say?” said Spencer.
“You ever been to Cardinal Falls, West Virginia?” said Reilly.
“What? No,” said Spencer.
“It’s about a three-hour drive,” said Reilly. “We just did it today. It’s not impossible that you could go up and back in a day.”
“What?” Spencer looked confused. “I never did that. I’ve never been there.”
“What do you know about meditation poses for the Fellowship?” said Reilly. “Do you know how they meditated?”
“You mean the readiness pose?” said Spencer. “Bending the arm and the leg while lying down?”
“Can you account for your whereabouts on these dates?” said Reilly. He rattled them off, rapid fire.
“Why are you asking me this?” said Spencer.
“Just routine,” said Reilly. “If we can eliminate you, that makes things simpler for us.”
“Eliminate me for what?” said Spencer.
Reilly just folded his arms over his chest.
“You know,” said Spencer, “maybe I should talk to a lawyer before we keep talking? I’ve been watching Making a Murderer and stuff like that a lot. And if you guys think you’re going to pin something on me, there’s no way. I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything. What is it you think I did, anyway?”
Reilly stood up. “Really, it’s just routine. If you can account for your whereabouts on those dates, give me a call, okay?” He handed him his card.
“What are you investigating?” said Spencer.
“We work for the tri-state task force,” said Reilly. “We’re investigating a serial killer.”
Spencer’s face turned white.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reilly gripped the steering wheel as they sped up I-95, heading back to Cardinal Falls. “So, you like this guy for the murders?”
“I never even thought about him being the one who did it,” said Wren, who had been quiet ever since Reilly had taken that line of questioning with the boy.
He’d been a little surprised to see her anger at the kid, but he did think it was justified. Reilly thought it was sick when people glorified violence and murderers too. People didn’t understand what it was like to actually see a dead body, see the effects of senseless killing. If they did, they wouldn’t wear those kinds of t-shirts. At least, he hoped they wouldn’t. One thing he’d learned as a cop was that people were capable of really terrible things. And not all of those people were psycho serial killers. Lots of people were just mad and out of control. They didn’t have forethought to think through their actions. They did bad things, and other people got hurt.
When Reilly had first wanted to be a cop, he’d been young, and he’d thought of it as catching bad guys. Now, he understood that it wasn’t quite so simple. People weren’t bad, not exactly. They were stupid and impulsive. They were angry and short-sighted. It was definitely a far cry from matching wits against brilliant criminal masterminds.
“I guess it could make sense,” said Wren.
“What about your profile?” said Reilly.
“He’s a little young,” she said. “I’d figure at his age, our killer would be working up to these kinds of murders. I wouldn’t think he’d be this sophisticated yet.”
“Right, good point,” said Reilly. “So he’s not a perfect fit.”
“Well, none of the suspects are,” she said. “But that
could be that my profile is flawed. Profiling, it’s not an exact science.”
“More of an art?” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “It’s not creative. I mean, it’s evidence-based.”
“I read that book by John Douglas, Mindhunter,” said Reilly. “Guy seemed to make up those profiles from his gut. He was pretty arrogant about it too. Seemed to think he was a goddamned genius. I bought the book to try to help myself figure out criminal cases. It was less than helpful. And that’s the granddaddy of profiling, right?”
Wren chewed on her bottom lip. She opened her mouth to answer and then closed it.
“Hey, I’m not trying to give you shit,” said Reilly. “I think I’m jealous. I wish I could do it. But I don’t know if I ever could. It requires some ability to get inside a killer’s head that I don’t possess. I don’t want to either.”
“I understand that,” said Wren. “I don’t know why I can do it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s biological or something.”
Right, because of her mother. He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. He debated asking something, but then he decided not to. Instead, he volunteered a bit of personal information. “My mother was killed by Mark Quentin Rhoads.”
She turned to look at him, surprised. “Oh, really? Wow, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” Then she looked away. “I, um, interviewed him when I was at the Academy.”
He stiffened. “Really? They just let you do that? Let students in there to talk to dangerous killers?”
“Not alone,” she said. “We were there to observe other agents, mostly, but we were allowed to ask questions as well. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right,” he said, too quickly. He wanted to shut down that part of the conversation suddenly, because he felt himself feeling a helpless rage that mirrored Wren’s own anger towards Spencer. It was the way he always felt about his mother’s murder. They said that you got over that kind of thing, but you didn’t. You just got better at compartmentalizing it, shoving it to the back of your head. He tried to think of something to say to change the subject, but came up empty.
The Bone Forest Page 7