Mason had showered twice last night but swore he could still smell the ME’s office stench clinging to his skin. He shifted restlessly in his office chair, checking his e-mail, hoping Dr. Peres had sent some reports. No dice. It was too early in the day to expect something. Heck. He’d just been there yesterday. He lifted his wrist to his nose and sniffed.
“Why in the hell do you keep doing that?”
He looked up to find Ray glowering at him from across their desks. Their two desks were pushed together, divided only by their computer monitors and various other desk crap. On his desk, the crap was messy piles of files. On Ray’s desk, the crap was neatly stacked horizontal dividers with the files perfectly tucked inside. Mason kept forgetting to requisition some to clean up his desk.
“I keep smelling the medical examiner’s office. I swear it’s fused to me.”
Ray sniffed the air. “I can’t smell it.”
“I can. I f*cking showered twice last night. What is the deal with that place?”
“I hate going there.” Ray shook his head.
“Don’t we all. I don’t know how they work there.”
“My wife would kill me if I came home smelling like rotting death every day. She doesn’t like the way I smell when I go to the practice range. And I think that’s a good smell.”
“Do you think they have showers available? And maybe a laundry for their regular clothes? I mean, I know they wear scrubs and have them laundered. But what about their own stuff?” Mason asked. “It’s got to pick up the odor.”
“Christ, I’d build a room in my garage for taking care of it. I wouldn’t want that laundry getting washed with my kids’ stuff.” Ray tapped on his keyboard. “Hey, speaking of…just got an e-mail from the ME.”
Mason refreshed his e-mail and opened the new message. He scanned it quickly. “Dental records have identified two of the others from the pit. Both with arrest records. Old arrest records.”
Ray made a celebratory horn-like noise with his mouth. “We’re getting closer.”
Mason kept reading. One skeleton belonged to a twenty-nine-year-old woman who had two arrests for prostitution in Portland back in the eighties. The other was a twenty-five-year-old male. One arrest for prostitution. Same city, same decade.
“Our unsub is a perv,” stated Ray.
“Already knew that.”
“Looks like he swings both ways.”
“Or we’re looking for more than one guy,” Mason countered.
“Shit. Why do you always complicate things?”
“I call it being thorough. Makes sense, though, handling all those kids? I would think that would take more than one person.”
Ray sighed. “Give me five minutes alone with one of them.”
“Amen, brother.”
“Anything on those tattoos yet?” Ray scratched at his chin. “I like that lead a lot.”
Mason shook his head. “My tattoo guy over at the gang unit was real interested. He couldn’t tell me anything at the first look. Said he was going to have the symbols interpreted and then dig through the archives and run them by other big-city gang units.”
“Think one of the symbols stands for child-killer or pervert?” Ray muttered.
Mason snorted. “I’ll put my money on bed wetter.”
“I’ll settle for one being his name.”
“That’ll work, too. Doubt he’d let that be photographed.”
“Crap.” Ray’s tone lost its teasing note, and Mason looked up sharply. Ray was focused on his monitor. “That Jules Thomas lead the senator gave you? The nutcase who threatened him?”
“Yes?”
“He’s been dead for ten years.”
Mason mulled that over. “Any mention of tattoos? Obviously, he wasn’t the guy who attacked Jamie Jacobs the other day, but he could still be our guy in the Polaroids. Like I just said, we could be looking at more than one guy.”
Ray shook his head. “I’ll get someone to contact next-of-kin and ask about tattoos. All I have here is a date of death.”
Mason mentally shifted Jules Thomas to the Unlikely but Not Eliminated column in his brain. “I still don’t have any news back on Cecilia Brody’s Korean patient. Jeong.”
“Aw, f*ck! What if those are Korean symbols on the wrists? Why the hell didn’t we think of that before? That would lend a hell of a lot of weight to her lead!” Ray started digging through one of his files.
Mason blinked. What the hell? He’d been asleep at the wheel. How had he missed something so obvious?
Ray pulled out the Polaroids, handing half to Mason. “Any other evidence we’ve missed that can indicate our guy is Asian? Outside of the marks on the wrists? I see so much of that sort of thing tattooed everywhere these days that I didn’t even consider that the wearer could be Asian.”
Mason stared at the photos while mentally running through other evidence from the underground bunker. Had they missed something huge?
The photos had discolored with age. The colors were faded, the whites yellowed. He studied them carefully, trying to ignore the pain of the children in the pictures. Mercifully, the children were dead. No longer suffering at the hands of the monster.
He remembered Jamie’s words.
My brother’s nightmares…
No doubt Chris Jacobs was still suffering. Suffering emotionally and mentally from this killer’s hands. Mason and Ray had tried to locate Chris Jacobs. They’d hit dead ends. The man knew how to stay off the grid. Frankly, Mason was content to wait until Jamie contacted her brother. She’d convince him to come in for some questions. If not, Brody definitely would. Brody would tie Jacobs up and lash him to the roof of his Range Rover to get some answers on his brother’s death.
Was Daniel Brody dead? Why hadn’t his body been with the others?
In his gut, Mason believed the boy was dead. The odds were not in the child’s favor.
Mason studied one photo and ground his teeth. Their killer’s wrist and forearm with the tattoo was laid across the scrawny naked back of a young boy. The boy’s face was not in the picture, so it could have been any of the boys. The boy’s back was a mess of bruises, the colors deep purples, yellows, and browns. Small round red and pink marks indicated possible burns with a cigarette.
He tightened his grip on picture. Something was hovering just out of his subconscious, something important. Bruises, burns, colors…
He blinked and focused on the tattooed arm. Stark black and white. Even though the photo colors were discolored, the colors on the arm were distinct.
“Say, Ray…” He paused, searching for the words to describe what he was seeing. “Do any of your pictures show the unsub’s arm against the skin of the kids?”
Ray grimaced. “Yeah. Several.”
“Let me see them.”
Ray passed over a small stack. Mason scanned them, feeling a small victory start in his chest. “Look at the color of his arm compared to the kids’ skin. I don’t mean to sound racist, but that skin doesn’t look very Asian to me. Hell, it doesn’t look Caucasian to me, either. It’s f*cking whiter than snow. It’s like see-through white.”
Ray held out his hands for Mason’s pictures.
“Hell, I’ll use the term Dr. Peres used to correct me yesterday. I don’t think this a*shole’s ancestry falls anywhere near Asian.”
Ray nodded, flipping through the pictures. “Even with the distortion of the colors because of the age of the pictures, he is consistently one very, very white motherf*cker.”
Mason grinned. Ray rarely swore. When he did, it was an event.
“Jamie Jacobs stated in her report she thought the guy colored his hair and wore colored contacts—”
“—and she said he wore long pants and shirt sleeves on a hot day.” Mason cut off Ray’s sentence. “I thought he was just covering up tats, but what if he was covering up something more distinctive. Like baby-butt, lily-white skin?”
“You’re thinking he’s an albino?” Ray asked. “People still have that?”
“I think so. It’s not a freaking disease that we immunized for. You’re born with it.”
“I know that,” grunted Ray. “I’m just saying you don’t see much of it. Now all I can think of is that Tom Hanks movie with the sicko priest who was an albino.”
Mason reached for his phone. “I’m gonna check with Jamie Jacobs. See if she thinks there’s a possibility that her attacker was albino.”
Mason felt good. Real good. His gut said they were headed in the right direction.
“Do you think this is it?” Jamie whispered. She gripped Michael’s hand tightly. They’d stopped in front of a dingy, tan mobile home, flanked by some large firs. The bushes and plants in front of the home were neat and organized but lacking in color. Jamie didn’t see any indication that a child lived here. She was glad they hadn’t tried to find it in the dark last night. The roads weren’t marked at all.
Michael honked his horn, making Jamie jump. She glared.
“The sheriff said not to sneak up on him. I’m just letting him know someone’s here. It’s pretty early in the morning for some people.” He squeezed her fingers in reassurance.
“I don’t see anyone. Or a vehicle.” Michael scanned the area with a hawk-like intensity, still holding her hand. “Let’s give him a few minutes. I’m gonna honk again.” He laid on the horn as the words came from his mouth. At least it was a partial warning.
Jamie took a deep breath and forced herself to sit still. She wanted to leap from the truck and pound on the door, demanding to see her nephew.
“Relax. Your brother is going to be happy to see you, and your nephew will love you on sight. How could he not? Look at the beauty you’re going to bring into his life. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
She turned toward Michael, distracted by his words. He was smiling, his gaze studying her face, making her lips tingle as if he’d touched them. She was discovering that he often said random things, indicating their brains were on different wavelengths. She was worrying about her brother, and Michael was giving compliments. It was slightly disconcerting but also slightly erotic.
“You’re not thinking about Chris,” she stated.
“Nope. I’m thinking about you. Us. Last night. Awesome.”
Yes, last night rocked. “I’m thinking about Chris.”
“No, you were thinking about Chris,” he corrected. “Now you’re thinking about last night because I can see your cheeks are pinker. And your eyes are glowing a bit. You don’t fool me. You’ve got sex on the brain again.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. His words were constantly unexpected and so refreshing. She’d never met anyone like him. His brain was quick and nimble, and his thoughts were always miles ahead of hers on different tangents. But it was all good. Sometimes, he slowed down and savored the moment. Like right now. He was still looking intently at her, and his attention made her feel beautiful.
He wasn’t the type of guy to deliver a line, hoping to hook a woman. He simply said exactly what he was feeling and thinking. She’d been suspicious of his blunt talk before, but now she knew it for what it was. A man appreciating what was in front of him. She was even getting used to being called “princess.” No one else could get away with it. Michael Brody could because he made it sound like pure tenderness.
“Are you excited to see your brother?”
“God, yes. I’m excited, worried, and nervous all together.”
Michael looked at the house, his intensity shifting to the little building. “I totally understand. I’ve got some questions for your brother. And I plan to get some answers. Good answers. I’m not going to accept ‘I don’t remember.’”
“But he doesn’t remember.”
“Yes, he does. He knows something. That’s why he’s living in the middle of nowhere and impossible to find. I suspect he’s avoiding the man who broke into your house.”
What? “No, you don’t under—”
“Your brother behaves like a man hiding,” Michael said emphatically. “Not a man trying to avoid people. I’ve got neighbors I’ve never seen because they rarely come out of the house. That’s how someone acts when they want to avoid people. They don’t move to the middle of nowhere and keep their kids out of school. That’s a man who is scared…protecting what’s his. By keeping you out of the loop, he thought he was protecting you. Instead, you got the crap beat out of you, and it could have been a lot worse. You bet I have some questions for him.”
Jamie’s mind spun. Did Chris remember? But why not tell someone? Why hide?
“Why hide the truth?” Her voice rose. “If he knows who killed all those kids, why isn’t he telling?” She shook her head. “That makes no sense at all.”
“I agree one hundred percent.” He nodded. “No sense at all. I’ve thought this through backward and forward and inside out. But the only person who can tell us the truth is Chris or Mr. Tattoo.” He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go meet your nephew.”
In his green gaze, she saw complete support. Michael might be there because he had questions for Chris, but he was also there for her. She squeezed his hand back and slipped out of the vehicle.
Michael pounded on the front door of the home. They waited. And he pounded again.
“Well, we’ve made enough noise to not be a surprise.” He stepped to a window and cupped his hands to peek in.
“Michael—”
“Jamie, get back in the truck. Lock the doors.” Michael ducked away from the window, keeping his back against the wall of the home.
She froze. “What—”
“Do it. Someone’s trashed the house. Go, now!”
“But—”
“Now!” He turned a razor-sharp gaze her way, and she stumbled backward. Sweat instantly dampened under her arms, and she reached out a steadying hand to grip the rail to the steps.
He’s here. The man with the tattoos. He’s here.
She backed down the stairs, surprised to see a pistol had appeared in Michael’s hands. Where had that come from?
“Move it,” he hissed at her.
She turned and ran. Locking herself inside the SUV, she ducked behind the dash the best she could while keeping an eye on Michael.
Chris? Oh dear God. Is Brian hurt?
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she could hear the tattooed man’s voice in her head. Goddamned bitch! Her thighs quivered from the awkward position, and her torso started to shake.
Michael tried the doorknob to the house. Then opened the door.
No! Do NOT go in, Michael!
With his gun stretched out in front of him like a character on a cop show, he entered the house.
Jamie stopped breathing, her ears straining for any sound outside of the pounding of her heart. Her gaze stayed glued on the open door, occasionally darting to the sides of the house, checking for surprises. It felt like ten minutes, but it was probably thirty seconds before Michael reappeared, his stance relaxed. He scanned the outside of the home and surrounding brush, and then he waved her out of the vehicle.
“No one’s here.”
Legs shaking, she opened the door but simply sat in the passenger seat. She didn’t trust her legs to carry her weight just yet. He came over, the gun tucked in his waistband, and reached out for both of her hands.
“Your hands feel like ice.” He rubbed them between his. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just needed you out of harm’s way.”
“Yes, you scared the hell out of me!” Jamie blew out a breath. “God damn it. That’s twice in two days I’ve been rattled like that.” A full-body quiver shook her in the seat. “No one’s here? What’s inside?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “The place has been torn apart. But there’s no sign that anyone was hurt. I think your brother split first.”
“Maybe he trashed it to confuse people.”
Michael shook his head. “Someone ripped up some kid’s drawings and deliberately left them on the floor in the kitchen. It’d take a lot for a parent to act like that, I think. Only someone who was really pissed that they didn’t find what they wanted would do it. And there’re no toothbrushes in the bathroom. Most people grab their toothbrushes when they leave.”
“We need to call the police,” Jamie said. Her mind reeled with images of the tattooed man hurting her nephew and brother. “Oh God. I hope they’re safe.”
“I’ve got Sheriff Spencer’s number. I’ll report it directly to him. And I’ll let Callahan know that we’ve hit a dead end here.”
“Did you see any pictures of Brian? Were there any pictures of the two of them?” Jamie was suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge to see her nephew’s face.
Michael thought for a second. “No, I didn’t see pictures. Wasn’t looking for them.”
She looked at the house. “Do you think I could go in? I won’t touch anything. I just need to look…”
“Not a good idea, princess. There could be some evidence in there that’d lead the police to Mr. Tattoo. Let’s not mess it up.” Michael thumbed through his phone contacts.
“I’ll just check the walls and look around. We’re so close, it’s killing me to be this close and not see them,” she pleaded. “Pictures could help us identify Brian if we see him without Chris.”
Michael held her gaze and then reached to softly touch her cheek. “I’d want to do the same. Okay, but touch nothing. Watch where you place every foot. Don’t step on anything or shift anything. No opening drawers or cupboards. And I’ll be right behind you.” He lifted the phone to his ear, and Jamie could hear a faint ring.
With unsteady legs, she made her way into the tiny house. Michael was right. It was trashed. And eerily reminiscent of the mess in her own home. Bile rose in the back of her throat and she forced it down, focusing on not stepping on the debris on the floor. As if from far away, she heard Michael talking to Sheriff Spencer. She continued her slow trek.
There were no pictures. She stood at the doorway to Brian’s room. The room told a story of a boy who loved outer space. Everywhere she looked there were science books on space or fiction that took place in space. There was a hanging model of the solar system and movie posters of space movies. She smiled at the poster of the Muppets from Pigs in Space. Chris loved that segment of the old TV show. She had, too.
“There’s something I haven’t seen in forever. Pigs in Space.” Michael spoke directly behind her. “My brother and I used to watch that.”
“Me too.” Jamie turned and tried to smile at him. “There’s nothing here. I thought for certain there’d be pictures of Brian. Chris avoids pictures, but I don’t know why he wouldn’t take pictures of his son.”
“Dunno.” Michael frowned. “We need to head back to Demming.”
Jamie didn’t like the grim expression on his face. “What’s happened?” She held her breath. Not Brian, please don’t tell me something has happened.
“Spencer is at a murder in town. His first murder in eight years, and he says the victim’s a friend of your brother.”
Three sheriff’s cruisers and one state police vehicle crowded the street in front of the town’s bakery. It looked like a simple concrete block building. The only clue to its purpose was the sign that read BAKERY painted over the door. Locals scattered about the sidewalks, talking, pointing, and wiping at tears.
Michael glanced at his watch and felt it slide in the sweat on his arm. It was ten a.m. and over ninety degrees. Welcome to Eastern Oregon.
At least it’s not humid.
For as many times as he’d heard that phrase, it should be the state’s motto.
The locals avoided him and Jamie. He caught a few glances thrown their way, some curious, some unfriendly. No doubt a lot of the town had heard the two of them were looking for Chris. And now Chris’s best buddy had been brutally murdered. “Best buddy” might be a stretch of the description. “The only person Chris talked to” was sounding more accurate.
The sheriff’s men were giving them the stink eye, too, as they waited to talk to Spencer. Like he and Jamie were the ones who’d brought murder to their perfect town. Michael inwardly sighed and wrapped a tighter arm around Jamie’s shoulders. She’d been looking over her shoulder since Michael had told her there’d been a murder. She’d asked few questions on the ride to town. Michael had few answers.
No sign of Chris and Brian.
No sign of the man who had done it.
Michael knew she was thinking the same thing as he.
Were we followed from Portland? Did we lead someone to Chris?
Sheriff Spencer stepped out of the bakery, took off his cowboy hat, and brushed his forehead with his sleeve. Close behind him was an officer in an Oregon State Police uniform. Michael wondered how many square hundreds of miles the OSP officer was responsible for. He’d heard they were spread pretty thin on this side of the state. Spencer caught Michael’s eye and jerked his head. Michael moved in his direction, bringing Jamie with him.
“Brody. Ms. Jacobs. This is Sergeant Tim Hove with OSP.” Spencer made introductions. Hove was cadaver thin with red hair and pale skin that must hate the intense sun of the east side of the state.
Hands were shaken all around.
“Who exactly is the victim?” Michael asked.
The two police officers exchanged glances. Spencer spoke. “Juan Rios was sixty-eight and owned the bakery. He lived behind it, same as his father had done for decades. Lived alone. No known family.” He took a deep breath, glanced at Jamie, and then returned his gaze to hold Michael’s. “Someone broke in. The door lock was busted, weak-assed lock. Juan was tied up in a chair. He’s got abrasions from head to toe, at least six broken fingers, and cigarette burns on his cheeks.”
Jamie made a small sound in the back of her throat and moved closer beneath Michael’s arm. He felt a small shiver speed through her shoulders. Rage reddened Michael’s vision.
If I have the chance, I will kill Mr. Tattoo.
“Looks like the cause of death will be strangulation.” He’s still got the cord around his neck. We’ll see what the medical examiner says.
“Juan may have had some overnight guests at some point. There’s evidence that someone, possibly two people, slept in his upstairs room recently.”
“Chris?” Jamie asked.
Sheriff Spencer shook his head. “I don’t know. No one we’ve talked to said anyone was known to sleep here except for Juan. There are some crayons on the table. So one guest may have been a child, which makes your brother a possibility. Chris never talked to anyone else in town.” He scowled. “I don’t like that it appears your brother has left town, Ms. Jacobs.”
Jamie stood taller. “You don’t think Chris killed that man, do you? That’s crazy. Why would he break in if you thought he was sleeping in the man’s home?” She pushed Michael’s arm off her shoulders, and she stepped closer to the sheriff. “Chris’s home has been ripped up inside, just like mine was, and it was probably by the same guy who did this. And you said cigarette burns? How do you think Chris got those scars on his neck and face? You’ve seen them, right?”
The sheriff’s face clouded, but he nodded.
“He was tortured as a kid by a sick pervert. And I think that pervert or someone close to him killed that old baker, trying to find Chris.”
“But how did the killer know to go to the bakery?” asked Michael. “Someone had to have said something. Has anyone new around town been asking questions about Chris? I mean, anyone besides us?”
“I don’t know yet,” Spencer replied. “I’ve got a lot of people to talk to and questions to ask.”
“We’ll give you whatever support we can,” Sergeant Hove offered.
“You need to talk with Detective Callahan in Major Crimes back in Portland,” Michael said, turning his attention to the OSP officer. “He’s looking for the man who ripped up Jamie’s place in conjunction with some older murders. I think Jamie’s hunch that this is the same guy is a good one. He is a cold-blooded killer. And has done the cigarette burns before.”
Sheriff Spencer’s face flooded red. “Wait a minute. Yesterday you never said anything about a murder. All you said was that you were looking for her brother. What the hell have you been holding back?”
Michael shook his head. “I had no idea this guy was on your side of the state. I assumed that he was still in the Portland area where he’d attacked Jamie—”
“Wait a minute.” Spencer reached out and gently moved Jamie’s chin to the side so he could better see her bruised cheek. “Start from the beginning.”
Michael did. He started twenty years back.
Both police officers were rubbing the backs of their necks and shifting their feet by the time he’d finished.
“Holy crap,” muttered Spencer. “We need to find Chris Jacobs before your tattoo man does.”
“I wouldn’t mind finding Mr. Tattoo first. I wouldn’t mind that at all.” Michael forced back the anger that tightened his throat.
“Do you think you were followed from the city? Obviously, someone found the house before you, but that’s only because I told you to wait till this morning so you had some light. Do you remember seeing anyone?” Sheriff Spencer asked.
Michael shook his head and looked to Jamie. She looked ready to puke. He knew she was thinking they’d led a killer directly to her brother and his son.
“I’ve tried to find Chris through all the usual and unusual online searches. He doesn’t exist on paper or in cyberspace. I don’t know how anyone else could have found him unless they were following us.”
“Anyone else know you were headed over here? You tell anyone your plans?” Hove asked.
Michael shook his head. “Callahan at OSP knew we were following a pretty good lead, but I didn’t give him any specifics, and he didn’t ask.” He smiled wryly. “Callahan knows I’d tell him if I had something concrete. And concrete means I’ve looked Chris in the eye and shook his hand to be certain he’s real. I don’t give out or print information unless I’ve checked and triple-checked it.”
“Print?” Hove frowned.
Michael looked the red-haired officer in the eye. “I’m a reporter for the Oregonian. I’m not looking for a story. I’m looking for personal answers; I’m looking for my own brother.”
He felt Jamie take his hand and give a small squeeze.
Hove’s expression relaxed. A bit.
Michael was going to find Chris. And Chris would tell him what’d happened to Daniel.
Jamie didn’t want to see the murdered old man. The description by the sheriff had been more than enough. She didn’t need an actual look. And she knew she was right about who’d done the murder. It had to be the same man who’d attacked her.
It could have been my death that cops were standing around and discussing.
Jamie’s chest quaked, and she concentrated on breathing evenly. She’d fought back against the tattooed man. She’d survived.
But would he be back? And did he have Chris and Brian?
She closed her eyes, tuned out the cop talk, and leaned into Michael, inhaling his scent. Male, strong, protective. She took a few deep breaths and felt his energy flow into her, calming her and giving her strength. He was a power source that she simply touched to recharge. Her phone beeped. She moved away from the discussion and saw that Detective Callahan was calling. Her heart double thumped, and her fingers clenched at the phone.
“Hello, Detective.”
“Ms. Jacobs. Sorry to be bothering you. I wanted—”
“Detective, has anyone called you about this morning? About the old man who was killed in Demming?”
“What?”
Jamie closed her eyes. “I didn’t think so. Michael just told the OSP officer that someone needed to contact you.”
“What the hell happened?” He nearly roared in her ear.
“I’ll let the police tell you everything, but the short version is we found Chris’s house and it’d been torn apart just like mine. Chris and his son were gone.” Her heart was threatening to pound its way out of her chest. “Then this morning the police discovered a friend of Chris’s in town had been murdered and t-t-tortured. It looks like Chris has been here. But I know he didn’t do it. I think the same man—”
“Our tattooed man? You think he was there?”
“Yes,” Jamie said, thankful Callahan could read her mind.
“Crap. You think he followed you guys?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone where we were going. Neither did Michael. I asked a neighbor to watch the cat but didn’t say anything. We were in such a big hurry.”
Jamie could hear Callahan speaking to someone in the background. A second male voice rumbled in answer. He came back on the line. “Who’s there from OSP?”
She glanced at the pale officer and checked his name tag. His name had completely escaped her brain. “Hove.”
“Okay. I’ll get a hold of him. But hang on a minute. I was calling to ask you about the tattoo guy. Anything else that you remembered about him? Anything descriptive?”
Jamie’s mind was spinning at insane speeds. “I don’t know. No, I can’t think of anything new.”
Callahan paused. “I was looking back over the officer’s notes. The part about where you said you thought he dyed his hair and wore colored contacts?”
“I still feel that way,” she started to say. “I don’t know how to explain—”
“You felt his coloring was unnatural.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“What about his skin color?”
Jamie thought hard. “He was so covered up…”
“But you saw his hands. His wrists where the tattoos were.”
She could see the tattoos in her mind. She slid her view down to his fingers. Pale. Pink fingertips. Very pale hands. “Very light-skinned. Really white, I’d say.”
“Would you say unnaturally pale?” Callahan prodded.
She thought of the tattooed man’s face. “I don’t remember his face being so pale.”
“Could you see his neck?”
Jamie shuddered. An angry face was filling her vision. The hatred and the fury emanating from his eyes…
“His neck was also white, very white I think. Paler than his face. But that’s normal for most people, I think,” she babbled.
“Ms. Jacobs…would you say he was possibly albino? And was covering it up?”
Her eyes flew open. Albino? Her brain skittered to a stop. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. The hair, the eyes, the long sleeves, and pants. I can see that now.”
“I didn’t want to put the thought in your brain,” Callahan stated. “I wanted to see if you would come up with it on your own. It’s a theory we have, and I just wanted your input.”
“What made you ask, Detective?” Had someone else seen him?
“The old Polaroids. We were so focused on the tats, we didn’t notice the condition of his skin. It’s freakishly white.”
“Well, I’d say he’s learned to blend in pretty well,” Jamie answered. “Albinism didn’t cross my mind, but I knew something was off.”
“I’ll touch base with Hove in a bit. There’s no sign of your brother?”
“No. Not yet. If he doesn’t already know, someone needs to tell him about the tattooed guy.”
“Ms. Jacobs, I suspect he already knows.”
“Son of a bitch.” Mason shook his head. “I think our tattooed freak followed them to Eastern Oregon.”
“Sounds that way,” answered Ray. “I don’t think anyone knew where they were going. Unless Brody told someone his plans.”
“Brody doesn’t tell anyone crap.”
“Agreed. What about Jamie? She tell anyone?”
“She says she didn’t. She asked one neighbor to watch the cat but didn’t say where she was going.”
“Either they were followed or he found Chris Jacobs on his own.”
“On the same day?” Mason highly doubted that. “So far we can’t even find the guy to interview him. And we’ve got the best computer system in the world, right?”
Ray choked.
“Either way. Where the f*ck is Chris Jacobs now, and where is our tattooed man? They’ve left one dead body in their wake. I don’t want any more. I gotta call this Hove.”
“Hove? Tim Hove?” Ray perked up.
“Beats me.”
“I know him from my trooper days. Good man. Actually likes living in the boondocks.”
Ray knew everybody.
“Jamie didn’t disagree with our albino theory. Sounded solid to her. Lends a little more weight to this being the same guy as twenty years ago and not multiples with similar tattoos. Now I want to know what they’ve found at that scene.”
“Think we need to get over there?” Ray didn’t sound excited at the idea of the long drive.
Mason knew there was no need to waste the hours on the road. “I’ll touch base with Hove and Luna County and see what they’ve got. Maybe we’ll get lucky and their scene will turn up something useful to point us in the right direction.”
Gerald washed his hands in a surprisingly clean men’s room at a gas station thirty miles from Demming. The kill had been relatively clean, but he still felt the need to scrub his hands several times. Once the old man had been tied in the chair, the interrogation had been easy. And he’d gotten shit for answers. The old Mexican knew nothing.
His skin suddenly goosebumped from small electrical pings in his nervous system. The residual effects of the high from the kill. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and relished the small rush. It was almost like a mini-aftershock-orgasm. The abrupt quivers that continue to shoot through the limbs after the sex is over.
At the bakery, the old man had said he didn’t know where Chris would go, claimed he had no friends and no family. Gerald had shown him a picture of Chris’s sister, and the old man had shaken his head. He’d never seen her or even known about her. Said Chris’s wife was dead. Had died in a car accident when the boy was a baby.
The boy was a surprise.
Gerald wondered what the child looked like. Did he look like his father? Chris had started as a hefty kid when he’d first met him, but by the time he’d escaped, he’d been a tall twig. He laughed out loud in the restroom. Was Chris paranoid about the boy’s safety? There were a lot of sick people in the world, people who would abuse a little boy with a lot of pain. No wonder Chris lived like a hermit. He probably was nervous for his kid’s safety every day.
If only he could get his hands on that kid.
That would teach Chris for putting him in this position.
Where did they go?
The Mexican knew that Chris had visited Portland in the past but didn’t know why. He’d also admitted Chris had been to Mexico a few times. Gerald pondered that statement. Was that good or bad? If Chris was headed to Mexico, he probably had no intention of ever returning. Especially once he heard his buddy Juan was dead. He could probably just let him go…
And the boss would say…
F*ck. He had to push on until Chris Jacobs was dead. He’d let the issue slide for two decades, confident in Chris’s lack of memory. But now he was starting to wonder. Jacobs lived like a man who had something to hide. The question was: Did he have sufficient motivation to keep it hidden?
Moot point. The waiting time was over.
It was time to clean up the mess that was Chris Jacobs. And he was stoked to do it. This little adventure from the boss had gotten his blood pumping. He’d kept his sordid side buried for a long time, keeping his other business only to himself. This time it was like he’d been given permission. Sometimes it felt like he had two lives. One to show the public and one just for him. This time his boss knew exactly what he was doing; it was almost like having an observer. God, that felt good.
His boss hadn’t given him an assignment like this in years. It was great to know he was needed for something besides the other mundane daily tasks he did for the boss. He had skills. Lately, there hadn’t been any use for them.
He finished up in the restroom and stepped into the tiny convenience store to pay for his gas. The overweight clerk was alone, his gaze glued to a tiny TV set mounted behind the counter near the ceiling as he sipped on a straw from the biggest soda cup Gerald had ever seen. He glanced at Gerald and then bounced his gaze back to the TV.
“All set?” There was black decay between all of the clerk’s front teeth.
Probably sucks on sugary Coke all day long.
Gerald nodded and pulled cash out of his wallet, eyeing a Hostess display with Twinkies and Ding Dongs. The clerk’s teeth made him change his mind.
“I can’t believe it’s been almost ten years since someone was murdered in Luna County,” the clerk said as he punched buttons on his register.
“What?” Gerald looked at the TV. A news reporter was standing on a familiar street in Demming. He couldn’t make out her words. “What happened?”
“Someone murdered the bakery owner in Demming last night. They’re clueless on what happened.” The clerk slapped the change in Gerald’s hand without counting it back.
Rude. Lazy. Sloppy.
Gerald felt a slow burn of anger start in his chest and swell outward.
“Stupid police out here don’t even know what to do with a murder.” The clerk picked up his cup, sucked at the straw, and turned his back on Gerald, his focus on the TV.
Gerald envisioned the clerk unconscious on the floor behind the counter with blood seeping from his ear. Gerald’s skin prickled in a good way.
“Look at those idiots. Just standing—holy crap! Check her out.”
Gerald looked.
Jamie Jacobs stood out from the circle of cops. Next to her, Michael Brody held her hand. The scene was shot from a camera across the street, as the reporter droned on. But Jamie stood out. Long legs, long black hair, perfect ass.
“F*ck. I ain’t never seen a piece like that around here. I’d like to tap me some of that.” The clerk took a long, noisy suck at the straw.
Gerald stared at the clerk and swallowed the small bit of bile that had risen at the thought of the sloppy man with someone like Jamie. Revulsion curled his upper lip.
“Looks like someone’s already gettin’ some,” the clerk chortled. “Lucky dude.”
Gerald glanced at the TV. Apparently, the cameraman found Jamie pleasant to focus on. He’d zoomed in on her and Michael Brody, who’d moved his arm around her shoulders. Even Gerald could pick up the protective waves flowing off Brody and across Jamie.
What’d Brody think of the mess inside the bakery? Coulda been your girlfriend…
Did they know where Chris would turn up next? They probably wouldn’t be standing around if they did. Gerald twisted his lips. He had to figure out Chris’s next move. Following the sister had worked pretty well, but now she looked lost and confused.
Too bad her time with Gerald had been so short. They could have had a lot more fun. Kinda like he’d had with the old Mexican.
Maybe…
Maybe the sister simply didn’t know that she held a clue to where Chris was going next. Maybe she just needed motivation like he’d given the old man. Or would Michael Brody be more motivated to hunt down Chris Jacobs if his girlfriend was threatened?
Gerald knew of two men who would probably do anything to protect Jamie Jacobs. There had to be an advantage for him in that fact. An idea started to simmer in the back of his brain, hovering just out of sight.
What if…
He was in the middle of nowhere, and all the police for hundreds of miles were focused on a tiny bakery. They didn’t even know what they were looking for. And he knew where Jamie and Brody were staying in Demming.
What would Chris do if the police found a bunch of Twinkies in place of Jamie?
Would that bring him out of hiding?
Gerald dumped his change on the counter and fished a few more bills out of his pocket.
“How many Twinkies will that buy me?”