Darby McCormick: Fear The Dark Part 12

'Where do we stand on the court order to access the medical records?' Darby wanted to know if anyone in the Downes family had been taking the antibiotic neomycin.

'Hayes is working on it,' Coop said. 'Any other questions?'

There weren't any.

'Okay, a couple of things before I go,' Coop said. 'First is the m.o.f.o. The satellite part is going to be delivered no later than one. After that, it'll take a couple of hours to install. Moment it's done we'll be on our way. If, for whatever reason, there's a delay, we're going to hit the road no later than four or so. They're saying a major storm's working its way towards Colorado tonight, dumping anywhere from three to five feet before it's finished.'

Robinson nodded from across the desk.

'Second thing is the duct tape,' Coop said. 'Based upon what I've seen, I'm pretty sure it all came from the same roll. There's nothing more I can do with it here, so I FedExed it out this morning. They'll get to our lab no later than 9 a.m. tomorrow. Since your cells aren't that reliable up there, if I need anything or have anything to report, I'll liaise with Chief Robinson. That work for you?'

Robinson nodded. Then he remembered he was on speakerphone. 'Yes,' he said. 'Absolutely. Anything you need.'

Coop clicked off. Darby flipped her notebook shut. It was too warm in here, and cobwebs had formed in her mind. She wanted to get moving. Get busy. She stood and picked up her jacket.

'Where you off to now?' Robinson asked.

'I'm going back to the hotel to investigate how the Red Hill Ripper discovered my room number.' She checked her watch: plenty of time before the autopsies. 'If you see Williams, tell him to meet me there.'

'So you're on board with the idea that the man who called you last night is, in fact, our killer,' Robinson said.

'We'll see.' Darby placed the car keys on the desk, in front of Hoder. 'In case you need to go back to the hotel.'

'How are you going to get there?'

'Walk. It's only a couple miles. The fresh air will do me good, help me clear my head.'

Hoder gripped the cane with both hands and groaned as he struggled to his feet. 'I'll see you out.'

25.

'Let me guess,' Darby said after Hoder shut the police chief's door. 'You want to chaperone me to the hotel.'

'If I walked with you, we wouldn't arrive until sometime after lunch. Besides, after that tongue las.h.i.+ng you gave Robinson, I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing.' Hoder smiled warily. 'How about we step outside for a moment and get us some fresh air?'

Darby slipped on her sungla.s.ses and zipped up her jacket on her way out of the station. It was cold in the shade but the parking lot was bathed in sunlight. The air embraced her like a long-lost friend and kicked away the exhaustion and the station's stale, antiseptic odour from her nostrils.

Hoder shuffled to a nearby patrol car, which was covered in a film of rock salt. He leaned the small of his back against the truck and seemed unable to catch his breath. Were his lungs having problems adjusting to the higher alt.i.tude, or was he sick? His face had a deathly pallor, and she saw his hands tremble.

'There was this s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t, guy by the name of Carlos Santos, who killed twenty-three people in and around southern New Mexico. Brought each one to a homemade torture chamber he'd constructed himself. Called it the "toy box". I don't need to spell out what happened there.'

'Was he caught?'

'Eventually.' Hoder's attention had drifted to the main road, where a solitary truck with mud tyres made its way towards Red Hill's barren downtown district, a place that resembled the kind of ghost town seen in a Clint Eastwood Western.

Darby s.h.i.+fted on her feet, impatient, wanting Hoder to get to the point behind this impromptu powwow so she could start moving. In deference to his status and obviously frail health, she decided to keep her mouth shut. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and waited.

'I wasn't actively involved in the investigation; I was there just as a consultant,' Hoder said. 'I spent three or four days with people from the local police and sheriff's office. The phone calls to my home started a week later.'

'From Santos?'

'Maybe. Probably. Santos killed himself before anyone could speak to him. Later we found out the phone calls had been made within one or two hours after Santos had abducted his victims. My home number has a longstanding trap-and-trace, but it didn't matter, since all the calls originated from payphones.'

Hoder wiped spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. 'I tried to engage him in conversation but he never spoke. A couple of times, though, he cried. I was sure he was reaching out to me because he was trying to stop. You know what ricin is?'

'A poison derived from castor-oil seeds.'

Hoder nodded. 'When castor oil is made, ricin is what they call the "waste mash". It's a very stable poison. Doesn't break down easily in extreme indoor or outdoor temperatures. It can be used as a powder or a mist, or as a pellet that dissolves in water. You don't need to use a lot a pin-sized amount is enough to kill an adult. The ER doctor who treated me managed to keep my organs from shutting down, but there was no way to repair the damage. Now you know why I look like I'm standing at death's door.' He smiled grimly, as if the act defused the memory. 'I still don't know how Santos did it.'

'But you're sure it was him.'

'Yes. Absolutely. Santos was a chemist. The police found ricin in his torture chamber. Later, they found out he had booked a round-trip ticket to Virginia. We still don't know how he found out where I lived, my home number or how he poisoned me.'

'He refused to tell you?'

'He killed himself. The police showed up at his house: Santos went upstairs to his bedroom and ate his gun.'

A sudden blast of wind kicked a nearby Styrofoam cup and candy-bar wrapper across the pavement.

'The Bureau checked every square inch of my home food and clothing, garbage, even my mail. My gut what's left of it tells me he did it at the restaurant, where I met a friend for drinks. It was the only time I went out that week. Three days later, I was sick.'

Darby glanced discreetly at her watch. 'Why are you telling me this?'

Hoder refocused his attention on her, squinting in the sunlight. 'Because I don't think you entirely understand or appreciate the predatory psychology of a s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t.'

There was no admonishment or lecture-type quality to his tone. He spoke simply and frankly, one professional to another.

'A great white shark doesn't feel guilt when it attacks a seal or a surfer,' Hoder said. 'It doesn't feel empathy or remorse or anything else, because it doesn't have a conscience. When it's finished, it simply swims off in search of other prey. A s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t functions in exactly the same manner but with one major distinction: when it sights its prey, it waits and plans the perfect moment to strike. The victim never sees it coming.'

Darby said nothing. She didn't disagree with Hoder's a.s.sessment; that had been her experience as well. She didn't say anything because her thoughts had drifted away from the conversation again. Something nagged at her and she couldn't put a finger on it. Not yet.

Hoder wasn't finished. 'The Red Hill Ripper is the worst kind of s.a.d.i.s.t an anger-excitation rapist who is not only highly intelligent but also has a high level of control over his surroundings. Just look at how meticulously he moved in and out of the Downes home.'

'He didn't rape any of his victims. The phone call, the photos of me he's trying to scare me off.'

'I wouldn't be so sure, Darby.'

'He went to great lengths to clean up that corner of the bedroom. He made a mistake, and he's s.h.i.+tting his pants that we're going to find it find him.'

Hoder pushed himself off the trunk and placed all his weight on his cane. Then he shuffled a few steps towards her and turned his back to the sun, so he didn't have to squint. From behind the green tint of her sungla.s.ses Darby could see the deep lines and grooves around his eyes and mouth. She could also see the irritation growing in his face.

'You know what you are?' Hoder said. 'You're a meddlesome wh.o.r.e.'

26.

'That's how the Red Hill Ripper views you,' Hoder said in his soft Southern drawl. 'That's why he called you last night and that's why he sent out those naked pictures of you. Like all s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.ts, he despises women. You're a b.i.t.c.h and a s.l.u.t, and he seeks complete control over you because you're a woman and women are the enemy. Right now he's planning on how he's going to get to you and punish you. He's rehearsing every single detail.'

Darby didn't reply, her skin crawling with anxiety.

'You're an intelligent woman,' he said. 'You have a PhD from Harvard in criminal behaviour, and you've had first-hand experience with s.a.d.i.s.ts. You know he's fixated on you now. At some point he's going to strike, and when he does he's going to take you someplace where he can degrade you and torture you until your heart gives out. Tell me I'm wrong,'

You're not, Darby told herself. She looked away, at the notches in the mountains, and that thing that nagged her reappeared along the edges of her mind. She tried to chase the thought or feeling or whatever it was, but it had vanished like vapour scattered in the wind.

'Why do I feel like I'm talking to a storm drain?'

'I hear you,' Darby said, and turned her attention back to him. 'You want to be my chaperone for the day? You're hired. Give me the car keys.'

'What would make me feel better is for you to go back to Sarasota.'

'And what, exactly, is that going to accomplish?'

Hoder's irritation had vanished, replaced by what appeared to be an almost paternal concern. 'I never intended to put you in harm's way,' he said. 'Maybe I should have shown better judgement before asking you to come here, I don't know. What I do know is that I'm truly sorry for what happened to you this morning.'

Hoder wasn't paying her lip service; she heard genuine regret and sorrow in his voice, and for some reason it triggered the image of David Downes tied to the dining-room chair, suffocating inside the bag, trying to scream at the killer to stop and then at the end trying to scream to his daughter and wife that he loved them, his last words forever lost, sealed behind the tape wrapped around his mouth.

Then the image vanished, leaving with her the cold certainty that when she found the killer she would do something horrible to him. If given the opportunity, she'd feed him into a wood chipper, slowly, inch by inch. Without regret and without remorse.

'I'll take care of the arrangements,' Hoder said. 'Go home, Darby. Please.'

'Our guy already knows my name. If that Carlos Santos character found your unlisted home number and where you live, who's to say the Red Hill Ripper won't do the same with me?'

Hoder studied the scuffed tops of his loafers.

'Besides,' Darby said, 'running away isn't my style.'

Hoder swallowed, clearly pained. 'I'm sorry.'

Darby was about to speak when the thing that had been nagging at her rose like a bubble in her mind and popped: the Ripper had called after she had hung up with Coop.

She spoke in a clear, calm voice. 'I need to get to the hotel now.'

Hoder handed over the keys. She held the door open for him and, after a moment of deliberation, got in.

Hoder sat with the cane between his legs and stared out of the front window as they left the parking lot. She drove slowly, as if the thought she carried in her mind was a fragile, teetering thing that was about to crash into a million little pieces against the floor.

'I went to school nights to get my master's degree,' he said, the tyres crunching across the gravel. 'For my thesis, I interviewed soldiers who had survived combat. My plan was to write about the commonalities of post-traumatic stress disorder, but what I ended up writing about was something I called "second life syndrome".'

Darby concentrated on the road, on the thoughts bouncing around in her head.

'It refers to soldiers who, having survived combat, believed they'd been touched by G.o.d's hand or some other divine presence,' Hoder said. 'Because their life had been spared under the cruellest circ.u.mstances, they thought nothing bad would ever happen to them again. They lived their lives recklessly, marching headfirst into danger because the normal rules of life no longer applied to them.'

Darby knew where he was heading. 'I don't share that view, Terry, and I've never been a soldier.'

'But you've survived combat with Traveler and the others that followed him. And then there's that cult you and Cooper investigated, what, two years back, the one that abducted Jack Casey and his daughter and turned his wife into a vegetable.'

Images of what she had seen on that remote island off the coast of Maine flashed through her mind, and she unconsciously s.h.i.+fted in her seat.

'There's another psychological component at work here,' Hoder said.

'All due respect, how about giving the five-and-dime psychoa.n.a.lysis a rest?'

'You're deliberately putting yourself in harm's way because you want the Ripper to come after you. You want to kill him.'

'Wrong.'

Hoder made no reply.

This morning's depression has mercifully lifted. As I near my house, I feel more in control than ever. More hopeful.

And why shouldn't I? I'm still safely hidden inside the shadows, and I still have the power to choose. I can take Angela Blake, Tricia Lamont, even the McCormick b.i.t.c.h, whenever I want.

Sarah gave me Angela's picture because she knows I like a fighter. In that regard, Darby McCormick would be the ultimate challenge. She wouldn't submit herself willingly to the rope, the way some of the others did. She wouldn't scream or beg or cry. She'd lash out. I did a Google search on her last night, surprised by the number of articles that came up. I only had to read a handful to know that she gets off on killing. Given the chance, she'd blow my head off or slit my throat and then sleep like a baby. The woman has no conscience.

Women are fragile, delicate things; they break easily. And, like all things that break, they don't look or function the same way after they're put back together. You always see the cracks. The weak and vulnerable spots.

And hers is fear. The photos and last night's phone call have put her into full red-alert mode. She'll be constantly looking over her shoulder and watching her rear-view mirror, terrified the Red Hill Ripper is coming for her. Every time the phone rings and every time she gets undressed her anxiety will go into overdrive. I have to stoke her fear, keep her simmering in it, so that she can't sleep. She'll become run down and, eventually, exhausted. She'll be jumpy and irritable and p.r.o.ne to mistakes and she won't see me coming.

The real challenge will be what to do with her. Training a woman to obey is really no different than training a dog. Some dogs take to their lessons easily. A few swift corrections and they're in line. The more stubborn ones, you have to systematically break their spirit. Sometimes you have to drive your point home with a hand or fist. You have to be patient and find the way to deliver the message so it lives in their bones.

I pull into the driveway, as excited as a child on Christmas morning, and park. Sarah's car isn't here; today is Thursday, her errand day. I hit the b.u.t.ton on the garage-door remote clipped to my visor and leave the truck running. I only need a few minutes in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

I open the steamer trunk, a blast of dust hitting my nose as my eyes pore over a dozen fragmentation grenades and a sawn-off Mossberg shotgun; a bulletproof vest designed to withstand armour-piercing rounds; night-vision binoculars and goggles. I find what I'm looking for in the corner: a box holding a vial of Etorphine and a half-dozen syringes, held together with an elastic band. A small injection of that opioid and a normal, healthy adult will black out in less than a minute.

I tuck the box and syringes into my pocket, wanting to have them close by for when the time comes. I can hear the radio playing upstairs. Sarah puts it on every time she leaves the house, believing that the news and an a.s.sortment of talk-radio hosts will convince a potential burglar that someone is home.

A reporter is talking about the Downes family, the latest victims of the Red Hill Ripper. The piece ends with a mention of the FBI sending Terry Hoder to Red Hill to hunt the killer.

Has Sarah heard this? Does she know? At some point I'm going to have to tell her.

I start up the stairs but my thoughts turn back to the other items inside the trunk.

What if the police come for me when I'm not at home? The FBI? I move back to the trunk and stand over it for several minutes.