“Hi, young fella. I’m Norm. This all ya need?”
Victor nodded. He stood at the banged-up wooden counter in Norm’s Fish & Bait in Bowman, a small town not five miles from Greenbrier State Park, and lined up his purchases. Norm, a grizzled old dude with an unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth, studied each item and its price, then punched them with arthritic fingers into an old-fashioned cash register. Fritos, bean dip, carrots, crunchy peanut butter, and white bread. Victor saw a stack of Milk Duds and felt his mouth water. Did Lissy like Milk Duds?
He jumped when she whispered against his ear, Of course I like Milk Duds. That’s a stupid question. I like anything chocolate. I wish you’d gotten me one of those big chocolate bars you threw to all those little kiddies, what a waste.
She wouldn’t ever let up, he knew it. He wanted to tell her buying the huge chocolate bar from the kiosk opposite the big tent had been creative, it was genius. He’d pictured it in his mind—using it to create chaos. But the redheaded bitch had been hovering over the kid, on red alert.
Victor laid two Milk Duds on the counter, one for him, one for Lissy. He watched Norm slowly press the ancient keys to ring up each little box on that ridiculous cash register from two centuries ago. He felt Lissy close, knew she was waiting to remind him she’d known Sherlock would be on the lookout for him at the book festival, watchful and ready if he tried something. Would you look at that old varmint, chewing on that nasty cigar, his breath toxic and his teeth yellow. I want to get out of here, Victor. He’s giving me the creeps.
Victor heard his name and froze.
He looked up at a grainy old TV set on a shelf behind Norm, surrounded by boxes of cigarettes. Victor’s brain went blank, his breath hitched in his throat. How was this possible? He stared at his booking photo from two and a half years ago, heard the newswoman saying: “Victor Nesser, aged twenty-three, is wanted for questioning in the murder of federal prosecutor Octavia Ryan in Willicott, Maryland, on Friday.” She said he’d escaped six weeks ago from the Central State Hospital and was being sought by police.
Victor couldn’t breathe. He felt poleaxed. They’d found Ryan’s body? Already? But how? He’d seen no one on that freaking lake when he’d rowed her out. Not a soul, and the fog, it was thick, like veils lifting up and down. It was barely daylight. And they knew his name? It was impossible. He’d done everything right. He was shaking, his breath coming fast and hard.
Norm said, “That’ll be fifteen dollars and thirteen cents.” He looked up at Victor as he loaded up a bag. “Hey, what’s wrong, kid, you sick or something? You’re white as my Maude’s bridal sheets.” He laughed. “I guess by now they’d be as yellow as her teeth, they’re so old. What’s wrong?”
How? He’d been so careful. He’d wiped everything down, left nothing that could be connected to him. What? The old coot wanted money. Victor’s hands shook as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and peeled off a twenty-dollar bill.
“You got thirteen cents? Make it easier, you know?”
“No.” Victor couldn’t look away from his face on the TV. How could they possibly know?
“You watching the news about that escaped murderer? He’s a kid, like you, imagine that, and the little psycho’s already been in a mental hospital. Who raises a boy to rob banks? And now he’s killed his own lawyer. His parents should be in the cell next to him.” He waved his hand back at the TV. “They’ve played it three or four times already. As if a murderer would stop in here to buy some junk food for a campout. That’s what you’re doing, right? Camping out? You’re too young to have kids yet.” The cigar moved and shifted, and a moist piece of tobacco fell onto his chin. Victor couldn’t stop staring at it.
The newswoman’s voice droned on in the background.
“Hey, you look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
Kill him, kill him! Shoot him between the eyes, Victor. You can’t let the stupid old geezer live. Do it now!
But Victor grabbed his bag and bolted out of the store.
“Buddy, you forgot your change!”
Maude stuck her head through the curtain dividing the store from the small office. They watched the dirty Kia peel out of the parking lot in front of the store. “Hey, Norm, what’s with that skinny young kid?”
Norm carefully took the cigar out of his mouth, picked the fleck of tobacco off his chin, shrugged. “It was weird. The kid turned white and ran out of here, forgot his change.” Norm saw a box of Milk Duds had fallen on the floor. He picked it up, placed the box carefully in a straight line with the others. He stuck his cigar back between his lips as he turned to look at the TV again.
“Holy crap,” he said. His cigar dropped to the counter and rolled against a bag of Fritos.
21
* * *
LAKE MASSEY
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SUNDAY MORNING
Sala and Ty followed well behind Hanger Lewis’s pontoon boat as its net slowly dragged the next narrow slice of the lake.
Ty didn’t need to be here in her runabout. It was wasted time, really, with the book festival still going on, but she knew Sala needed distraction. And this was as good a way as any. “Here, you steer,” she said to him, “I’ll get us some water.”
Sala changed places with her, took the rudder. “They haven’t found many more bones in the last half hour, so that’s good, I guess.”
Was it? How few was good? How many bones was too many? Ty remembered the Green River Killer in Washington, how the detectives still argued over the details of the case. So many women murdered, so many never found. She remembered her father telling her mother to never be out alone. Ty drew in a deep breath. Had she come across her own Green River Killer here at Lake Massey? She was terrified she wouldn’t catch him, because more people might be murdered, and it would be on her head now. She was in charge, and she would have to bury her doubts, her private fears so deep, she herself couldn’t find them. Like her dad always said, one step at a time. It was time for her to take that first step. Ty handed Sala a bottle of cold water from the ice chest. They both drank. It was going to be a scorcher today, no fog left to cool things down, only brilliant sun overhead. She’d given him a hat. They wore sunglasses and had so much sunscreen slathered on their faces, their noses were white.
Sala looked tired. Ty didn’t know when he’d finally fallen asleep the previous night, but she’d been aware on some level that he’d tossed and turned, undoubtedly reliving what had happened, churning with guilt even though none of it had been his fault. But otherwise, he was holding up. The fresh air was good for him, not to mention the two cups of her Turkish espresso she’d given him. It was almost as thick as sludge and would jump-start anything with a pulse.
Ty looked out toward the pontoon some twenty yards ahead of them. They had to stop every few minutes and pull in the big net, clean it out. How many morons had thrown their beer bottles into the lake? She said, “So far this morning they’ve found the bones of maybe ten more people. Ten people, Sala, human beings, murdered and tossed into the lake like they were refuse. And we never would have found them if I hadn’t seen Octavia killed.”
At the sound of Octavia’s name, Sala felt his throat close up. He swallowed, made himself focus on Charlie and Hanger sorting through garbage in the net. There were only the two of them today. Charlie raised a femur, showed it to Ty. Sala said, “If I know Dr. Thomas, he’s at Quantico right now—Sunday—examining the bones they took to him yesterday.”