A Cold Dark Place (37 page)

"Where's my daughter? Where's Nick Martin?"

"Not here, if that's what you're asking. Look around"

With Chris covering her, Emily moved swiftly from the
main room, to the kitchen, to the single bedroom. A window
was open and she could hear the roar of the Pacific, but no
sign of her daughter. Why is this happening? Why is God doing this to me? Emily fought to push all of the things that
spoke to her being a mother to the back of her consciousness. Let the cop take over, she thought. Let the cop find the
girl.

"Last chance. Where is she?" Emily's gun, once more directed at Dylan Walker, wavered just a little. She moved her
finger on the trigger.

Chris looked at her with abject horror. Not again, Emily.
"Let's keep cool here, Walker," Chris said, though his words
were really meant for Emily.

Walker knew it.

"Tell that to Ms. Rambo"

Emily didn't say anything. She let Christopher take over.
She knew she'd lost her perspective just then. She was a
mother more than she was a cop.

"Let's all stand down, all right?" Christopher asked, his
voice cool and commanding. "No one needs to get hurt here."

"Good idea. If I get hurt, Jenna dies. So I'm game. And if
you don't think I can keep a secret, you don't know me at all.
But I'm willing to talk. Maybe. Just point your guns to the
floor" Dylan lowered his gun slightly, his eyes fastened on
his adversaries, who both ignored his request.

Emily had wanted to kill Dylan Walker for all that he'd
done. But trumping all of that, of course, was Jenna's whereabouts. Her safety. Sucking up to a monster could save her.
It was the only thing she could do. But there was another
presence in the room ... Kristi Cooper. Emily knew that
Kristi was the reason for this horrific reunion.

"Where is she? Where is Jenna?"

"At first, I thought the Tuttle shooting was a godsend,"
Walker said, ignoring her question. "You'd killed an innocent man. I'd gotten away with something. Your murder of
Tuttle made mine a perfect crime-"

"The shooting was an accident."

"Incompetence, I'd say. But you call it whatever helps
you sleep at night."

"Where's my daughter?"

"Poor Kristi. And now, poor Jenna. I won't ask you again,
lower your weapons"

Christopher moved toward Dylan, just a step or two. Just
enough to let him know that he was unafraid.

"Where is your son?"

The words brought a smile, but Walker said nothing.

Christopher pushed harder. "Are he and Jenna together?
If you're here ... and they are off somewhere, doesn't that
leave you without the prize?"

A blank look came over Walker's face. "The prize?"

"Your son. All of this is about him. The smuggling of
your semen? The babies by Tina and Bonnie. All about your
legacy, right."

Walker let out a long insidious laugh. It was the kind of
laugh that chills a body to the marrow, Freon in the bloodstream. An evil laugh that had nothing to do with anything
being amusing. "For all of your reading about serial killers,
all the stupid classes you've taken for your somewhat checkered career, you don't understand me one bit."

"I do" It was Emily this time. "I get you. You're all about
control and power. That's why you pick on young girls, trusting women. You like to be in charge, don't you?"

"Ooooh," he said, "I like it when you act smart"

"Don't patronize me, Dylan. I know you. I can see
through you. You're nothing but a guy who thinks the world
revolves around him. You're a narcissist."

Walker laughed again, this time it was brief like a release
of gratification.

"As if that label would sting a little," he said, sitting back.
"I'm a narcissist because I look good. People like me. Women
like me"

"Not this one," she said. "Now, let's give this up. You can
be reunited with your son. I can find my daughter. You can
go quietly and safely."

Walker looked confused. It was the first time he'd seemed
out of sorts, as though what Emily said finally touched a nerve.
Finally she was able to penetrate the facade, the mask.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asked. "You don't understand me like Bonnie did-"

"Before you killed her?" Christopher cut in. The fire
crackled and sent embers across the pine floorboards.

Dylan Walker was agitated. The coolness of his demeanor
was draining before their eyes. "Like Bonnie did. She was
smart. Fat, but smart. Weak, needy, and smart. My favorite
combination. She knew I was a mimic. She knew I didn't
care one bit about her or anyone. Nick included. I didn't care
whether any of them took their last breaths. That made her
want me even more" The heinous grin returned, but this
time it seemed fake. Practiced. Bravado.

"Where is Jenna Kenyon?" Christopher asked.

Just then, without warning, a shot pierced the small space
of the cabin. Almost on instinct, Emily checked her own
gun. Had it gone off? Had she pressed the trigger when she
hadn't meant to? She wondered if that's what happened
years ago with Reynard Tuttle. Had that been a serious misstep or an accident? All of that passed through her mind as
the realization came that it was not her gun that had fired and
that Dylan Walker had not been shot.

Dylan was standing, having jumped to his feet, his gun in
his hand. Smoke curled from its shiny black barrel. Emily
heard the sound of a body falling, a heavy thud. She turned.

Christopher Collier was on the floor, blood oozing from
his chest. His life draining from his body, one red drop at a
time. He was so pale; he looked like one of those Elizabethan courtesans, all white with a gash of red for his mouth. The blood was flowing. In the split second of the shot to the
realization that Dylan Walker had shot Christopher, Emily
Kenyon let her guard down. She could have fired back at
Dylan, but she didn't. She'd been trained to do so. Officer
down! Fire back! Stop the shooter! Everything she knew
from the police academy failed her. The knowledge was there.
The skill, too. But when she learned how to deal with a cop
shooter, she hadn't been a mother.

She hadn't needed to know where a serial killer had
stashed her daughter. The only link in the chain of evidence
to save Jenna was the evil force with the gun pointed at her.

"What did you do?" She dropped to her knees and held
Christopher.

His breathing was labored. His handsome face, pallid.
"I'm going to be all right," he said. Christopher's voice was
soft, but he tried to show confidence.

"Of course you are," Emily answered, not sure who was
lying just then. Her? Him? Both of them. She blinked back
her tears. "We need to get medical attention here"

"Not so fast" Dylan Walker now stood by the doorway.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" He hesitated. "Someone?"

Jenna.

Emily pointed her gun. Walker smiled at her and in doing
so, it rushed through her mind that he'd never been handsome in his life. Evil like that never could be. His features
were symmetrical, classic, and well proportioned. He'd been
likened to a "Greek god" by magazine writers who fantasized for their readers what being with the ultimate bad boy,
the King of the Serial Killers, might be like. The sexy mix of
danger and good looks. So damned stupid. But just then, he
looked hideous, a twisted kind of handsome.

"I'm going to leave just now. You can call 911. Detective Collier just might live. You might be able to find your daughter. You stop me. Shoot me. Whatever's going through your
mind right now, isn't going to happen. Because if you stop
me, you'll never find her."

Emily knew he was right. She pressed her palm against
Collier's heaving chest. She'd stopped the syrupy red blood
flow. For now

Walker scanned the room, surveying his work. He seemed
so satisfied that it repulsed Emily all the more. As he walked
toward the door, red clay particles fell from the soles of his
shoes.

"Please," she said, "where is she?"

"In the dark," he said. "Just like Kristi." His gaze was the
dead-eyed stare of a shark. "She's alive, for now. But remember poor Kristi ... she waited for someone to find her."

Anger and fear converged. Emily thought she might lose
control and just lunge for him. Instead, she pleaded.

"Please"

"Jenna Kenyon. Kristi Cooper. Two peas in a pod. Pretty
girls. The kind I like to-"

"Just shut up," she said, finding her voice, breaking his
rhythm. If he had meant to hurt her deeply, he'd done so. The
wound was deep. "I want my daughter and Christopher
needs a doctor. Now."

Dylan stepped backward, once again that dead, cold stare
fixed on her like the scope of an assault rifle. "I'm going
now. If I stay, your daughter will be just like Kristi, a bag of
bones in the dark somewhere. That is, if they ever find her.
Remember they've never found Steffi or Brit."

Emily closed her eyes to shut out Dylan's words. When
she opened them, she focused on Christopher. She leaned
closer. The color of his face was slightly better. She could
feel the faint warmth of his breath against her cheek. He wanted to speak, and he fought for it. "Let him go. We'll find
her." His voice was a rasp. Emily gently squeezed his hand,
telegraphing that she believed him; she trusted him. Despite
the gunshot, despite the turmoil of the moment, Christopher
Collier was what he'd always been-calm and direct. He
lived up to every promise he ever made.

"I hope so," she said, her voice a soft whisper. She
brushed his wavy hair with her fingertips. If there was a better man, a stronger and gentler man, she'd never known him
in her life. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she tucked her
chin down to wipe them from her face.

When she looked up, the door was open, and Dylan Walker
was gone.

She punched 9-1-1 on her phone's keypad.

"We're going to be all right," she said as the call went
through. "All of us. Walker's not going to get what he wants"

Deep down, she wasn't so sure. She told the dispatcher
where she was, and she uttered the words that no cop every
wants to say: "There's an officer down .. ." She gripped
Chris's hand and told him once more to hang on, help would
be there.

"You're going to make it, Chris."

He nodded.

The bars on her phone flickered and the call to help was
gone. She'd told the dispatcher all she could. Emily Kenyon
sat on the floor and cradled his head in her lap. The fire
crackled, the overstuffed sofa beckoned. But everything
about the scene was wrong for the events consuming her. It
was not a romantic getaway for two. It was a crime scene
redux. Reynard Tuttle. Christopher Collier. God, please help
me. Help me. Help Chris, she thought.

A whisper from Christopher stopped her prayer.

"I have an idea where Walker is," he said.

Emily wasn't sure if he was delirious or not. His eyes
were hooded and his voice weak. "Closer," he said.

She pressed her ear to his warm mouth, nearly grazing it.

"The red clay. I've been there . .

"Where?"

"Red-"

Nothing more came from his lips. Chris slipped into unconsciousness.

"Where?"

But nothing.

Emily felt for his pulse. Nothing. She was panicking and
could no longer tell if she was feeling her own heartbeat or
his.

"Chris! Don't leave me!"

Again, nothing.

Emily tried harder. She shook him. Was he breathing?
She felt a puff of air flow from his lips. Last breath? God,
no! Finally, she felt the thump, thump of his heart. It was
weak, but steady. She wanted to cry. It was more than her
missing daughter, as if there could be any more. It was also
this man, this gentle, smart, and caring man that seemed so
vulnerable and so much in danger.

It passed through her mind and she fought it: Was this all
her fault?

"Don't leave me," she said, her words desperate and loud,
as if the volume of her concern could snap him out of the
darkness. The clock above the fireplace inched later and
later.

Emily heard the roar of a thunderclap and the pounding
of gale force winds off the roiling Pacific. But the evenness
of the noise indicated something else, something so welcomed. It was the answer to a prayer and proof that the dispatcher had taken down all the information. Emily placed Christopher's head on the floor and ran toward the door and
began to flash a message to the pilot by flipping the switch to
the floodlights.

She didn't use Morse code. Just a quick succession of
light and dark to signal the message that could save Chris
Collier: "We're here!"

A hospital helicopter landed on the wide beach in front of
the cabin and two EMTs and a nurse were on the ground and
in the cabin in less than a minute. Within five minutes, Emily
and Chris were onboard; she saw their cars parked just down
from the cabin, a bright light pouring from the picture window facing the ocean.

It was silly and she knew it, but Emily wished she'd
thought to turn off the lights.

The helicopter lifted and was sucked up into the black
sky.

"Officer, you need to be belted in," an EMT, a man of no
more than twenty-four, told Emily as she hovered over the
sagging frame of a man she cared deeply about, a man who
was there in harm's way for her.

For her daughter.

"I'm not letting go of Christopher. You understand?"

The young man acquiesced. There was no messing with
Emily Kenyon right then.

"All right," he said, "I'm going to pretend I didn't notice."

"You do that. And you tell your pilot to get to the goddamn hospital as fast as he can"

Emily sat in a plastic chair in a grim hospital room in
Seattle's Harborview Medical Center, the region's prime trauma
unit. White walls and floors had not yet seen the mauve and
taupe makeover of most hospitals. It was cold, antiseptic,
and anything but homey. But for Emily Kenyon, it felt like
the greatest place in the world just then. Christopher was
drugged up, but peaceful. He was alive! Flowers from
friends in the department filled the deep sill of the window.
A banner generated by someone's ancient dot matrix printer
spelled out GET WELL CHRIS! over his bed. A nurse in a blueand-white smock fiddled with one of the tubes that connected Christopher Collier to an array of bags-saline, pain
meds.