Twenty-nine
Within a day Xander moved everything he wanted into the house on the bluff. The books presented the biggest challenge. The library wouldn’t hold all of them.
“I never imagined this house would be too small for anything.”
He shrugged, studying the shelves, now filled with books. And the tubs on the floor, still full of them.
“You don’t want all your books in one place anyway. We should scatter some around.”
“There are too many to scatter.”
“Don’t even think about saying I should get rid of some.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
Maybe she had—just for an instant—and had just as quickly rejected the idea.
“I just don’t know where to put them. They don’t deserve to be stuck in tubs either. How will I know what’s in there I want to read?”
“Kevin could do another wall of books.”
“I’d love a wall of books,” she considered. “But I don’t know where.”
“Basement. You’re putting in a darkroom down there, right?”
“Yeah, sooner or later.”
“I could use some office space. Don’t need much, but somewhere for a desk and some files.”
“You don’t want an office in the basement.”
“Works for me,” he countered. “You’re out of my way, I’m out of yours, and there’s a hell of a lot of space down there. Plenty for a wall of books. They’re okay in tubs until. I’ll spring for the office and the wall, whatever goes with it.”
Which included, to his mind, doors leading out to the yard. But he didn’t see the point of front-loading that on.
“I’ve got money, Naomi. Investing it here instead of another rental—I’ve been looking at that—makes more sense right now. Plus I just got another rental since Jimmy’s moving into the apartment over the garage. Gangly guy with the pitiful goatee deal? He works for me.”
“Yes, I met him. You . . . You’ve already rented it.”
“Jimmy graduates from trade school in June, wants his own place. And I like having someone over the garage. It’s a good deal on both sides as it comes mostly furnished. You don’t want the crap I had in there.”
“But don’t you?”
“I want the books. They’re nonnegotiable,” he said, idly picking up a worn paperback copy of The Illustrated Man. “Did you ever read this?”
“I saw the movie.”
“Not the same.” He pushed it into her hand. “It’s good. Anyway, unless you’ve got other plans or want to think about it, I can get Kevin thinking about office space and a wall of books.”
“Other than the darkroom, I didn’t and don’t have any plans for the basement.”
“Good. We’ll get on that. Worrying about what you’ve gotten yourself into?” he asked her.
“No. More wondering why I’m not. And I guess since I have some actual furniture coming tomorrow, we could scatter some books. Or at least consider their final location.”
She stuck the book in the back pocket of her jeans for later and would have picked up a tub, but he beat her to it. “They’re heavy,” he said.
“The little sitting area off the living room. That’s a good start.”
She led the way through the quiet house. Just the man and the dog, with all the workmen gone for the day. It didn’t seem smaller, she realized, now that she lived with a man and a dog. It seemed that was always what the house had in mind.
It seemed natural.
She mentally rearranged the sitting room furniture she’d yet to buy as she studied the space—added a funky plant stand with some interesting houseplant. And . . .
“There’s this open cabinet—four shelves—in the basement. I was going to use it outside for plants, but it would work right here for a bookcase—with knickknacks worked in. Books and maybe a couple of photos, some whatever. Metal frame, wood shelves.”
“I guess you want me to get that.”
“What’s the point in having a man around if he doesn’t get things from the basement?”
“Right.”
“Oh, you know, now that I see it here—in my head—Cecil has this old radio. You know, the dome-shaped vintage style. How cute would that be on the top of the case? It doesn’t work, but . . .”
“Doesn’t work doesn’t mean it can’t work.”
“And what’s the point in having a mechanical man around if he can’t fix a vintage radio that would be perfect in the sitting room? I think, yes, I think I’m getting used to it already.”
“I’ll get the case. How about if I see if I can get used to drinking your wine while we set it up?”
“An excellent idea.”
They drank wine, loaded books on shelves.
“Did you talk to Loo?”
“Yeah. She’s pissed. Not at you,” he said, reading Naomi’s face clearly. “Jesus, give her some credit. She’s pissed this bastard’s been stalking you since college. Pissed he killed Donna. And now she’s aware. A lot of people go into Loo’s. A lot who aren’t local, who stop in for a drink, some easy food. Or like they will Friday night to listen to the band. She’ll be looking.”
For a thirtyish guy with an average build in Wolverines, Naomi thought, but let it go.
“Mason’s going to West Virginia, to the prison, with someone from the BAU.”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“They have some names.”
Xander dropped the book he’d just picked up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t recognize any of them. But they’re going to interview anyone who sends up a flag—who’s corresponded with or visited Bowes multiple times, or whose correspondence sends up those flags.”
She picked up the book, set it on the shelf. “They’ll look into all of them. Lifestyle, travel, occupation.”
“Good. Nobody’s ever looked for him—not like this. And I’m not buying he’s so damn smart he’ll slip through now that they are.”
“Mason agrees with you. I’m working on getting there, too. He could be gone—from here, I mean. He could have moved on, at least for now.”
But when they found the body of Karen Fisher, part-time waitress, part-time prostitute from Lilliwaup, on the side of the road a half a mile from Point Bluff, they knew he hadn’t gone far.
—
The best thing about a press pass—and his was legit—was how it got you where you wanted to go. The little whore from nowhere stirred things up again, brought reporters from Seattle back. Even some national stringers.
And he was right there with them. Hell of a story that would be, he thought. If he wrote it himself he’d win the fricking Pulitzer.
Up yours, New York Times, Washington Post, and all the other creaky dinosaurs who wouldn’t give him the time of day when he’d wanted a job.
Now papers were the dodo of news, and blogging was the way to go.
He could work anywhere, and did. He’d actually doubled back and covered some of his own work before, but this marked the first time he’d been right on the spot before, during, after.
While he found it tremendously satisfying, and knee-slappingly funny, he knew he couldn’t stay in the area much longer.
Getting too hot, he thought as he recorded the droning chief of police (asshat) and the media liaison from the FBI (arrogant bitch).
Time was coming—he could feel it—to wind up the odyssey. Time to take Naomi for a ride, have some long conversations, a hell of a lot of fun.
Then end her.
After that, maybe he’d take his show on the road. Maybe up to Canada for the summer, down to Mexico for the winter.
Footloose, fancy-free. And plenty of targets to shoot when the mood struck. In memory of Naomi Bowes.
And one day he would write the story. He’d write a book—not for money. He’d have to wait until he settled somewhere. Like Argentina. He’d write and self-publish the book that rubbed everything he’d accomplished in the faces of the asshats and arrogant bitches.
He took notes on his tablet, took some pictures. He liked focusing in on Mason, he especially liked that.
Hey, over here, fuckhead. I’m going to kill your sister soon. I’ll rape her every way there is to rape first, then strangle her like your old man should have.
Maybe send old man Bowes a picture of her. There were ways to smuggle things in—and he’d made a point of finding them. He thought that would be the whipped cream on top.
Yeah, he’d do that, and go one better. He’d publish all the pictures online, every one of the bitches he’d done. God bless the Internet.
Then everyone would know he’d outdone Bowes. Outdone them all. The Green River Killer, the Zodiac? They were nothing next to him.
Deliberately he threw out a question during the Q&A, wanting to draw eyes to him.
Look at me, look at me, look at me.
He would’ve asked a follow-up, but the ugly bitch beside him tossed a question out first.
Later he wrote up the story for the bullshit Daily Crime blog he freelanced for, working on his laptop in the pizzeria because most of the media types retreated to the motels or the coffee shop that looked out over the marina.
“Can I get you anything?”
He looked up, saw the pretty blonde he’d targeted and lost. He thought: You should be dead.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Ah, gotta get out of my head.” He offered a big smile. “Forgot where I was for a minute.”
“I can come back.”
“No, that’s okay. I could use a Coke, and, yeah, I could eat. How about the calzone—loaded.”
“Sure.”
She brought the drink in under two minutes. “Are you staying in the area?” she asked. “You’ve been in before.”
“For now, yeah. I’m a reporter.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went sad and blank.
“Sorry.” Immediately he coated himself in sympathy. “I guess you knew the . . . Donna Lanier. She worked here.”
“Yes.”
“I’m really sorry. If there’s anything you want to say, want me to write about her—”
“No. No, thanks. Enjoy your Coke.”
When she scurried away, he had to hide the smile.
Maybe he’d snatch her up after all. Maybe he’d just circle back for her, then make Naomi watch while he did the little bitch with her tight ass and tight tits.
Can’t save this one, he imagined saying. Not like Ashley this time. And when I’m done with her, when I’m done with you, I’m going to pay your good friend Ashley a visit, too. Finish what your old man couldn’t.
He worked right through the calzone, putting together another piece on spec, and listening to the chatter around him.
Small towns, the same everywhere, he thought. If you wanted to know what went on, you just had to sit in the same place long enough.
He learned the mechanic was moving in with the photographer, into the big house on Point Bluff. He learned people were scared, and some of them impatient with the police.
Why hadn’t they caught him? they asked.
Because he’s smarter, better, more than they are, he wanted to answer.
He learned that some people speculated the killer lived in the national forest, like a survivalist.
And thought: No. He’s sitting right here, asshole.
He heard that Naomi’s new fuck buddy was playing at the bar on Friday night.
So he began to make his plans.
—
Lucas Spinner.” Mason tapped the photo on the kitchen counter again. “You’re sure, no bells?”
“Not even a muffled gong.” But she studied the face—young, a lot of disheveled brown hair, a beard that needed shaping. “Why do you keep coming back to him?”
“He had press credentials, a small paper in Ohio, visited Bowes six times between July 2003 and August 2004. Corresponded with him for another eighteen months afterward. Then he’s reported missing, presumed dead while covering a brush fire in California in 2006.”
“Well, if he’s dead—”
“Presumed,” Mason qualified. “And shortly after, correspondence begins between Bowes and a Brent Stevens, initially with a Queens return address and postmark. But there’s no Brent Stevens from Queens during that time period. And I’ve read the correspondence, Naomi. I’d swear the same person wrote Stevens’s and Spinner’s letters. There’s an attempt to change it up, but the syntax, the terminology. We’re having an expert analyze the letters.”
“If they’re the same person, you think this is the man you’re looking for.” She picked up Spinner’s photo again.
“Some of Stevens’s letters were postmarked from areas you were in, and the timing jibes. Then he drops off the grid. It all stops.”
“And that worries you.”
“Because it wouldn’t stop. He’s found another way to communicate. Smuggled cell phone, smuggled snail mail. Somebody looking the other way when Bowes gets his supervised computer use. It happens.”
“Maybe without all the hair, the beard.” Naomi shook her head. “I’m going to scan this onto my computer, work on it. I’ll work on it while you’re flying to West Virginia. That way if I have any luck, you’ll be right there with Bowes. You could push on it.”
“He’d be older now. Remember that, too.”
“You said he blends. He wouldn’t blend with the hair and the beard, so let me work on seeing him without them. First thing tomorrow,” she promised. “We need to get going. I promise you’ll have a good time.”
While she checked the locks on the back door and got Tag a rawhide bone to keep him busy, Mason checked his watch.
“A bar, a rock band, a Friday night. Yeah, I’ll have a good time, but only a couple hours, max. We’re leaving at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Will you let me know when you’re on your way back? After you’ve talked to him?”
“I’ll text you. I’ll call if there’s anything you need to know. You do the same,” he added when she set the alarm, stepped outside.
“We haven’t done this in a long time. Gone to a bar together.”
“My twenty-first birthday, you flew home to surprise me.”
“Not since then?”
“Not since. We went to the bar at the Spot, so I had my first legal drink with you, Seth, and Harry, then you took me to that weird little place.”
“The Hole in the Wall, in Chelsea. And that girl hit on you.”
“I might’ve hit back, but I had a date.”
Laughing, Naomi closed her eyes, let the wind blow over her face as Mason drove. “Let’s make a pact. Once a year, wherever we are, we meet somewhere and have a drink in a bar. Even when we’re a hundred and ten.”
He held out his hand, pinky crooked. She hooked hers with it. “Even when you’re married with five kids,” he warned.
She snorted. “That’ll be the day.”
Yes, he thought. Yes, it will.
—
He saw her come in. He’d been watching, waiting, and felt a tightening in his loins when she stepped into the bar. Pale yellow shirt, snug jeans.
Had her kid brother with her, and after one look at the stage where the mechanic and his grease monkeys hammered away on some ancient Rolling Stones bullshit, the kid brother began to scan the room.
So he angled away, picked up his beer.
Grabbing a stool at the end of the bar hadn’t been a problem. Most people wanted tables—and he didn’t. A solo at a table drew attention. A guy sitting at the bar drinking a beer didn’t.
He shifted on the stool just enough to keep them in his line of sight as they worked their way through the tables to sit with the asshole carpenter and his asshole wife.
He’d thought about killing the wife—Jenny—just for the hell of it. But she really wasn’t his type.
Maybe, if he ever decided to come back this way, just for the memories, he’d pay her a little visit. But he didn’t have time to play with her now.
Now, it was all about Naomi. So he’d watch awhile, finish his beer, leave a decent tip. Nobody remembered a decent tipper, just the lousy ones or the big ones.
Then he had things to do. It was going to be a big night.
—
You said they were good,” Mason shouted at Naomi. “You didn’t say they were really good.”
Delighted, she nudged him toward the table. “They’re really good!” She locked eyes with Xander and thought: Oh yeah, I’m with the leader of the band.
After laying a hand on Jenny’s shoulder, she leaned down. “We’re a little later than we planned. I’m going to the bar for a round. Are you guys ready for another?”
“We could be.”
She gave the shoulder a squeeze, started toward the bar. Because she wanted to connect with Loo, she aimed for the middle, idly scanning as she went.
She saw a man at the far end, bill of a ball cap pulled low, head down toward the nearly empty beer glass in front of him. And felt him watching her.
He rubbed his fingers up the bridge of his nose, shouldered away from her. Something shivered up her spine like a warning. Despite it, or maybe because of it, she changed directions, started toward the other end of the bar.
“Hey, Naomi!” Krista popped up from her table, grabbing Naomi into a hug. “We sold the print of Xander with the dog. Ten minutes before closing.”
“That’s great.”
“We need more!”
“I’ll get you more.”
“Can we have a sit-down next week, talk about it?”
“Sure. Email me. We’ll set it up.”
She broke away in time to see the man in the cap walking casually toward the exit.
Nothing, she told herself. Probably nothing. Changing directions again, she walked up to the bar and Loo.
“Guy walking out was giving you the eye,” Loo said before Naomi could speak.
“I saw that. He was sitting alone, end of the bar.”
“Didn’t like the look of him.”
“Why?”
Loo shrugged, continued to mix a dirty martini. “Warmed that seat nearly two hours, nursed one beer—and had his eye on the door half the time. Kept his head down, wouldn’t look you in the eye.” She shrugged again, added a spear of two fat olives to the glass. “But he watched you, all the way to the table.”
“I couldn’t get a good look at him. Did you?”
“Not much of one. Suz! Order’s up! Kept his head down, like I said. Early thirties, I’d say, looked like brown hair under that cap. Long, skinny fingers. Couldn’t keep them off his face. Nervous like, if you ask me.”
She pulled the next ticket, set two beer mugs under taps, drew them both at once.
“Or maybe it’s me who has the jitters, between one thing and the other.”
“Are we all right? You and me?”
“No reason for us not to be. Terry! You’re up. Are you here to chat or drink?” she asked Naomi.
“Both, I guess. A round for the table. Kevin’s beer, Jenny’s wine, and I’ll have the same. A Corona with lime for my brother. I’m so sorry, Loo.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. If you want to talk, we’ll talk when I don’t have to yell back at you. My boy up there loves you. Anything else is just noise.”
“I’m really going to try not to screw it up.”
On a bark of laughter, Loo set the two glasses of wine on a tray. “Aren’t you the positive thinker?”
“That’s pretty positive for me.”
She carried the tray to the table, served the drinks. Suz breezed by, grabbed the tray, kept breezing.
“Jenny says they’ve got a CD.” Mason hefted his bottle. “I’m going to buy it. You know the uncles are going to love this.” He drank some beer, sighed. “Thought you’d never get back with this.”
“They’re busy, and I was talking with Loo. There was this guy . . .”
Immediately Mason set down his beer. “What guy?”
“Just a guy at the bar. We both felt he was watching me.”
“Where?”
“He left.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. Mason—”
“Did she?”
“Not really.”
He got up, left his beer, and headed toward the bar.
“Hey! I was going to talk him into dancing with me.”
“He’ll be back—and he can dance.” Wishing she’d said nothing, Naomi picked up her wine.
When Mason came back, he leaned in close and spoke directly in her ear. “She says early thirties, white, short brown hair, average to slim build, about five-ten.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d say. And I can pick out twenty more guys in here that more or less fit that.”
“But you had a feeling, both of you. Feelings count. I’m going to have someone work with you tomorrow.”
“Mason.”
“People see more than they think they do, especially observant people. It can’t hurt.”
“Okay, okay. Now dance with Jenny. She wants to dance, and Kevin has to be cattle-prodded onto the dance floor.”
“I could dance.” He took another swig of beer, then got up to grab Jenny.
With Kevin grinning after them, Naomi turned her attention back to the stage. Xander watched her—and that gave her a feeling she could live with.
—
Pleasantly tired, absolutely relaxed, Naomi settled into Xander’s truck.
Ky leaned in the window. “Sure you don’t want a postgig brew, man?”
“I’m on call, as of ten minutes ago.”
Ky shook his head. “One beer isn’t going to impair you, son.”
“One beer could cost me my license. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“You shouldn’t feel like you can’t decompress because I’m here,” Naomi began.
“We go that same round after nearly every gig when I’m on call. Plus, I’m ready to head home.”
“I bet the dog’s more than ready to get out.”
“And there’s that. And there’s another way to decompress.”
She smiled. “Is that so?”
“I’ll show you.”
After the dog went out, made his rounds, and settled down for the night, he showed her why home and bed was a much better idea than a beer.
—
When his phone went off at four fifteen, Xander sincerely wished he’d stuck Jimmy (first night in his new apartment, and with a female companion) on the graveyard shift.
“Shit, fuck, shit.” He grabbed the phone, stared blearily at the readout. “Keaton’s. Uh-huh. Right. Okay, got it. About fifteen minutes.”
“You have to go.”
“Dead battery—probably. Between here and town, so I’ll check it, jump it if that’s it, and be back in a half hour.”
“You want coffee?” she mumbled.
“Like I want to breathe, but I’ll get it. Go back to sleep.”
“Don’t tell me twice,” she managed, and did just that.
Even the dog didn’t get up. Xander saw Tag’s eyes gleam as he pulled on clothes, but the dog didn’t stir or follow him down to grab that coffee before he headed out.
He used a travel mug, downing the coffee as he walked out to his truck.
Thirty, forty minutes, he thought as he gave the house one last long look. He’d be back. The doors were locked, the alarm set, the dog right there.
She’d be fine.
Still, he wished he’d dumped the shift on Jimmy. He knew about the guy at the bar—had noted him himself. The way he sat alone, head down, the way he’d kept a bead on Naomi when she’d come in.
Then again, he’d noted a guy sitting alone at a table, one who fit the basic nondescription, and who’d given Naomi a long study when she’d walked through the bar.
Until a woman had come in, hurried over, and snuggled up with him.
This murdering bastard didn’t break into houses anyway, he reminded himself. But he flicked a glance in the rearview as he drove away.
“2013 Ford Escape towing a 2006 Fun Finder RV,” he muttered. “Can’t miss that.”
He slowed rounding the turn, and indeed couldn’t miss it. SUV and camper both sat on the shoulder, emergency flashers blinking.
Xander slid in, nose to nose, and watched the man get out of the driver’s seat.
Another reason he hadn’t dumped on Jimmy. The murdering bastard liked hunting on Friday nights. Women, but why take chances?
The man lifted his hands, waving one, blinking against the headlights. Then he turned back to the SUV and spoke to someone inside as Xander got out.
“Keaton’s?”
“That’s right.”
“Mike Rhoder. You were really quick. It just won’t start. I got my kid in the back, and we were heading to Olympia to camp for the weekend. I just pulled over—he had to pee—and it wouldn’t start back up. Just clicks. No, we’re not there yet, Bobby.” He rolled his eyes. “Just go back to sleep.”
Xander hit his own flashers. “Go on and pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”
“Thought I’d be stuck here till morning, then I’d never hear the end of it from my ex. Hope like hell I don’t need a new battery.”
With the hood latch released, Xander went around to the front while the man leaned into the SUV again. “We’re fixing it right now, and it shouldn’t take long. It’s an adventure, right, buddy? And we’re nearly there. Promise.”
“Why don’t you try to start her up?” Xander said with his head under the hood.
“Sure, I can do that.”
There was just the faintest hint of . . . excitement in the tone to have Xander pushing back, bracing. But the blow to the side of his head flashed pain, flashed lights, then shut out into the dark.
“Or I could do that. How about a couple more, for good measure?”
He lifted the crowbar over his head just as he caught headlights beaming ahead of the turn.
Swearing, he lowered the crowbar and gave Xander a shove with his boot to roll him off the shoulder.
The car slowed. The Good Samaritan rolled down his window.
“You all right there, pal?”
“Sure am. Getting a jump, but thanks for stopping!”
“No problem. Have a good one.”
As the car pulled off, he swiped sweat from his face. Too close, and one good crack would have to do. No time for more. He slammed the hood, got back in the SUV, and drove toward the bluff.
He checked the time, smiled to himself. Right on schedule. He’d pull the camper off the road, just far enough up her drive so any cars passing wouldn’t give it a thought, but not so close that she or that damn dog would hear.
He’d thought about poisoning the dog, even researched methods. But they all took too long, were too unpredictable. He needed fast.
He’d thought about shooting the dog, which, while satisfying, would be noisy and give her a chance to run or hide.
And the knife? That meant getting too close to those teeth.
So he’d keep back, and let her go through the routine he’d watched countless times already.
She’d let the dog out the bedroom doors, then head down to the kitchen.
All he had to do was wait.
—
The dog woke her, predictably, at five. She reached out first, hoping Xander had come back. Then she reminded herself he’d only been gone about a half hour.
“I’m up. I’m up,” she grumbled as the dog did his predawn dance.
She let him out, then considered crawling back into bed. But the routine was too ingrained. She grabbed cotton pants and a tank, pulling the top on as she walked out of the bedroom.
She’d make waffle batter—after coffee. If Xander hadn’t gotten back by that time, she could text him, get an ETA.
Was it clingy or smothering to text about that?
She didn’t feel clingy or smothering, so she’d text, if necessary.
In the kitchen she hit the lights, put a mug under the machine, and punched the button for a shot of espresso in the coffee.
While it brewed she got out a bowl, eggs, milk, flour, sugar—and stopped gathering ingredients the minute the coffee was ready. And taking it, she walked to the accordion doors.
She wanted to smell morning.
Even as she started to open the glass, she heard movement behind her.