“Okay, I was driving along and I pulled off on the side road here.” He pointed emphatically at his feet. “When I made the turn there wasn’t any cross. I made a couple of phone calls, then turned around and drove back to the intersection. I waited for traffic and looked up the road. There it was.” He pointed again. This time at the cross. “I didn’t see him at all. The hoodie and everything? I got that from the blog. All I can say is that I didn’t pass anybody on the shoulder, so he must’ve come out of the woods. And, yeah, I knew what it meant. The cross. And it scared the shit out of me. The killer had just been there, right in front of me!” A sour laugh. “I locked the doors so fast… . I’ve never done anything brave in my life. Not like my father. He was a fireman, volunteer.”
This happened often with Kathryn Dance. The most important aspect of interrogation and interviewing is to be a good listener, nonjudgmental and aware. Because she honed this skill daily, witnesses — and suspects too — tended to look at her as a therapist. Poor Ken Pfister was confessing.
But he’d have to lie down on somebody else’s couch. It wasn’t her job to explore his demons.
O’Neil was looking into the trees. Based on what Pfister had originally told them the officers were searching the shoulder. “We better check out the woods.” An ominous glance at Pfister. “At least that might be helpful.” He called several deputies after him and they headed across the road to search in the forest.
“The traffic you waited for?” she asked Pfister. “Could the driver have seen anything?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, if Travis was still there. They’d have a better view than me.”
“You get a license number, make?”
“No, it was dark, a van or truck. But I remember it was official.”
“Official?”
“Yeah, it said ‘state’ on the back.”
“Which organization?”
“I didn’t see. Honest.”
That could be helpful. They’d contact all the California agencies that might’ve had vehicles in the area. “Good.”
He seemed ecstatic at the faint praise.
“All right. You’re free to go now, Ken. But remember there’s still an open complaint against you.”
“Yes, sure, absolutely. Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad.” He scurried off.
As she crossed the road to join O’Neil and the team searching the woods, she watched the pathetic businessman climb into his dinged car.
The stories were in that blog. They have to be true, don’t they?
SHE WANTED TO die.
Kelley Morgan was silently asking that her prayers be answered. The fumes were choking her. Her vision was going. Her lungs stung, eyes and nose were inflamed.
The pain…
But more horrifying than that was the thought of what was happening to her, the terrible changes to her skin and face from the chemicals.
Her thoughts were fuzzy. She had no memory of Travis dragging her down the stairs. She’d come back to consciousness here, in her father’s darkened wine cellar in the basement, chained to a pipe. Her mouth taped, her neck aching from where he’d half strangled her.
And choking fiercely from whatever he’d poured onto the floor, the chemical now burning her eyes, her nose, her throat.
Choking, choking…
Kelley tried to scream. It was pointless, with the tape covering her face. Besides, there was nobody to hear. Her family was out, wouldn’t be back till much later.
The pain…
Raging, she’d tried to kick the copper pipe away from the wall. But the metal wouldn’t give.
Kill me!
Kelley understood what Travis Brigham was doing. He could’ve strangled her to death — just kept going another few minutes. Or shot her. But that wasn’t good enough for him. No, the luser and perv was getting even by destroying her looks.
The fumes would eat away her eyelashes and brows, destroy her smooth skin, probably even make her hair fall out. He didn’t want her to die; no, he wanted to turn her into a monster.
The geeky kid, face all broken out, the luser, the perv… He wanted to turn her into what he was.
Kill me, Travis. Why didn’t you just kill me?
She thought of the mask. That’s why he’d left it. It was a message about what she’d look like when the chemicals were done.
Her head drooped, her arms. She slumped against the wall.
I want to die.
She began to inhale deeply, through her stinging nose. Everything began to fade. The pain was going, her thoughts, the choking, the stinging in her eyes, the tears.
Drifting away. Light going dark.
Deeper, breathe deeper.
Breathe the poison in.
And, yeah, it was working!
Thank you.
The pain was growing less, the worry less.
Warm relief replaced vanishing consciousness, and her last thought before the darkness grew complete was that at last she was going to be safe from her fears forever.
AS SHE STOOD beside the roadside cross, staring down at the flowers, Dance was startled by her trilling phone — no cartoon music now; she’d put the ringer back on default. A glance at Caller ID.
“TJ.”
“Boss. Another cross? I just heard.”
“Yeah, today’s date too.”
“Oh, man. Today? ”
“Yep. What’d you find?”
“I’m at Bagel Express. Weird, but nobody here really knows anything about Travis. They said he showed up for work, but kept to himself. Didn’t socialize, didn’t say much, just left. He talked to one kid here about online games some. But that’s it. And nobody’s got any idea where he might go. Oh, and his boss said that he was going to fire Travis anyway. Ever since the blog postings he’s been getting threats himself. Business is down. Customers’re afraid to come in.”
“All right, get back to the office. I need you to call all the state agencies who might’ve had vehicles in the area this morning. No make or tag. Probably dark, but search for anything.” She told him what Pfister had seen. “Check with Parks, Caltrans, Fisheries, Environment, everybody you can think of. And find out if Travis has a cell phone and who the provider is. See if they can trace it. I meant to do that earlier.”
They disconnected. Dance called her mother. No answer. She tried her father and the man picked up on the second ring.
“Katie.”
“She’s okay?”
“Yes. We’re at the house, but we’re packing up.”
“What?”
Stuart said, “The protesters from the hospital? They found out where we live. They’re picketing outside.”
“No!” Dance was furious.
He said grimly, “Interesting to watch your neighbors leave for work and find a dozen people with signs calling you a murderer. One of the posters was quite clever. It said, ‘Dance of Death.’ You have to give them credit.”