Into the Storm (41 page)

She laughed. “Okay, that’s a little too optimistically over the top, even for you, Little Marky Sunshine.”

“Too bad,” he said. “My glass is not only half-full, it holds five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle Dom Pérignon champagne.”

It was then, as she took a seat near Izzy, that he knew just how totally screwed he was. He got a clear measurement of just how much he cared for Lindsey, and how badly he wanted her in his life.

Because she said, “I’ll think about it. About Christmas.”

And there he sat, happy as a pig in shit because, although she hadn’t said yes, she hadn’t said no.

“Good,” Jenk said, but there was no time to say anything more because the meeting started.

The body Izzy had pulled from the quarry had yet to be identified.

Tommy Paoletti started the meeting with that no-news-is-good-newsflash. Apparently they were having trouble finding Tracy’s dental records. IDing her through fingerprints was not an option—the body they’d recovered didn’t have fingers.

Jesus.

They were waiting on DNA test results which, Tom reported, would probably be in within the next few hours, possibly as early as minutes from now, when they connected via speakerphone to Jules Cassidy, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation.

In the real good-news department, however, it appeared highly likely that Tracy had taken a second sensor-equipped training jacket with her when she’d left the cabin.

“Each jacket has an ID number,” Sophia announced, “and it’s definitely Dan Gillman’s jacket that’s missing. He remembers taking it off, right after he was ‘killed,’ during the exercise. He gave it to Tracy to put over her legs because her feet were cold.”

Two tables over from Izzy, the fishboy was nodding his head.

Lindsey raised her hand. “You’re taking into account the jacket I borrowed, right? I took one out to the cabin, which was allegedly a non–dead zone. I wanted to see if the computer really did pick up its signal.”

“For the record, it did,” Tess Bailey reported. “And yes, Mark Jenkins returned that jacket a few hours ago.”

Izzy couldn’t keep his mouth shut a moment longer. “So all we have to do is shuffle the temporary sat dishes around, resurrecting the dead zones until the computer program picks up the signal from Gillman’s missing jacket. What are we sitting around here for?”

“Have you looked out the window?” Gillman said.

Izzy looked. The wind was blowing, and the snow was coming down so fast and heavy, he could barely see the SUVs parked in the lot, three feet away. But a little ice and snow was nothing compared to what some freak job might be doing to Tracy right that very moment.

“Again,” Tess, the cute little comspesh, was saying. “It would be better to set up additional sat dishes, rather than simply redistricting the dead zones. If Tracy’s killer moves the jacket—”

“For now, we’re limited to the equipment we have,” Tom interrupted. “And I think it’s safe to assume that wherever Tracy is, she’s going to remain there, at least until the storm passes. Also, listen up, people. Until the body is identified, we’re going with the assumption that Tracy’s still alive. Is that clear?” He looked around the room, at the SEALs and Troubleshooters alike, at Lew Koehl, who was clearly letting him take command. “We’ve got to start somewhere. We may as well start here. We’ll be breaking into teams. We’ve got five temporary sat dishes out there. The goal will be to locate them, dismantle them, transport them to new locations—coordinating with Tess and the computer. Sophia and Lindsey, you’ll assist Tess.”

Lindsey clearly couldn’t stand the thought of not being in the thick of the action, because she raised her hand. “Sir, as a person with perhaps the most experience in homicide investigations—”

“I want you here,” Tom interrupted again, “studying satellite maps. I want you to identify the areas where you think it’s most likely a killer like this one could live, undetected. We don’t have the luxury of doing a grid-by-grid search. If Tracy’s alive, she’s running out of time. I want you to use your experience to help us find her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In addition to the five teams who’ll be moving the sat dishes, we’ll also have teams canvassing these areas, going door-to-door with pictures of Tracy. The local police have done some of this, but again, I want to focus on some of the more remote areas.”

Alyssa Locke spoke up. “Excuse me, Tom, we’ve got Jules Cassidy on the phone.”

Tom nodded. “Plug him in.”

She did. “Jules, you’re on the speaker,” she said.

“Any news on the DNA tests?” Tom asked, because he knew that was what they all desperately wanted to know.

“Sorry, not yet,” came the voice from the speakerphone. “As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Where are you?” Tom asked.

“I actually caught a flight to Hartford,” the FBI agent said. “I’m in a rental car, heading north on 91. It’s slow going, but I’ve been assigned my very own snowplow. He’s going to drive in front of me, all the way to Darlington if necessary.”

Tom exchanged a look with Commander Koehl.

“And, yeah, I know that you’re wondering how one missing receptionist warrants the expense of all those taxpayer dollars,” Cassidy continued, “and, well, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good news,” Tom said, at the exact same time that Koehl said, “Bad news.”

“That was actually a trick question, because the good news is also the bad news,” Cassidy told them. “We believe the killer is a man by the name of Richard Eulie, who the Bureau’s been actively looking for, for about six years now. He’s a sociopath. A serial killer. The mutilations to the body that you recovered are similar to some of his work in the past. And it is clear that he thinks of it as work—artwork, even.”

Holy crap.

“Even though it’s been three years since we’ve recovered a body, he hasn’t been shy about letting us know whom he’s abducted,” the FBI agent continued. “His MO is to leave behind a full handprint—in his victim’s blood. I’ve got a list here of twenty of his abductees, all from the last three years. All women, from pretty much all over the country. But one of the states he’s never hit is New Hampshire. Needless to say, we now believe his home base is somewhere in the Darlington/Happy Hills area. We also suspect the quarry where you found the body has been his dumping ground. As soon as the weather clears, we’ll drag it, in hopes of finding more of his victims.”

Holy shit. Holy, holy shit. Izzy sat, listening to the FBI agent rattle off this information. A freaking serial killer…

“But there was no handprint in the convenience store ladies’ room,” Lindsey spoke up. “Where Tracy’s mitten was found.”

“Yeah, the store was wiped of fingerprints, which is counter to his pattern,” Cassidy agreed. “As was the murder of the store owner—male, un-mutilated. But we think this plays into the theory that Eulie lives and works—so to speak—in this area. His goal was to steal the drugs from the pharmacy—the murder was incidental. It’s clear he didn’t want to be discovered. And yet, he slipped. He left a bunch of big, fat prints on the pay phone outside the store. Tracy’s prints were on that same phone.”

“So…Eulie stole the drugs,” Dave Malkoff wondered aloud, “because…he’s ill?”

“Eulie or someone he cares about,” Cassidy said. “That’s our best guess.”

“Are serial killers capable of caring about other people?” Sophia asked. She was clearly as horrified by this as Izzy was.

“The BTK was married with kids,” Dave told her.

“Nurse’s uniform,” Lindsey reminded them. “Tracy was wearing a nurse’s uniform.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy responded to her. “We think that might be why he took her. But she’s not a nurse, right? Has she had any significant medical training?”

Everyone looked at Jenk. “Not that I know of,” he said. He looked at Izzy.

Who couldn’t do more than shake his head. He didn’t know, either. But he did have a question for the FBI agent. “Do you think, if the body we found turns out to be someone else, that Tracy’s still alive?”

“I don’t know,” the man replied honestly.

“I do,” Sophia said. She stood up. “I think she’s still alive, and I think we should go find her.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

“S
ophia, wait up.”

Dave looked up from the table that held the maps and photos of Tracy to see the brawny red-haired SEAL officer named MacInnough—nicknamed Big Mac—chasing Sophia down. She turned to face him, clutching the file she was holding to her chest.
He comes on so strong, it gives me the creeps.

Dave began wandering in their direction.

“I just wanted to let you know that we’ll do our best to find your friend,” Mac told her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You seem to have survived your arctic swim the other day,” he said. “Quite a shock to the system, huh? You know, I actually do that sort of thing on purpose. Back home, in Buffalo, I’m part of a polar bear club. We all go for a swim every New Year’s Day.”

“That’s crazy,” she said.

He laughed. “No, it’s a fun tradition. My dad and his dad used to do it. Someday my kids’ll watch me, and hopefully want to be like their old man, too. Not that I have any kids. We’re talking a far-into-the-future someday.”

Sophia gave him a smile that was definitely strained. “We both have things to do.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Onward, into the storm. I just wanted to check up on you, make sure you were okay.”

“I am.”

“And see where you wanted to go for a celebration dinner after we find Tracy,” Mac said. He wasn’t asking her out, he was
telling
her that they were going out.

Dave didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted. The man had stones the size of China.

“I’ve got some time off coming,” Mac continued. “We could go to Boston, or even New York—really get to know each other. I know this great place on Seventh Avenue and…Well, think about it, okay?” he added. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Sophia had been in the process of escaping, but now she turned back, stopping him. “Alex, wait.”

“Um, actually it’s Alec,” he told her. “C instead of X.”

Sophia winced. “Sorry.”

“So much for my fantasy that you’ve been doodling my name on your notepad,” he said. “Shucks.”

“I can’t have dinner with you,” she said. “Not in New York, not even here.”

“Sure you can.” He
was
persistent.

“My husband died only a few years ago. It’s just too soon to think about dating. I’m just not ready.”

Dave turned to see Decker standing next to him.

“We’re canvassing the south sector,” he informed Dave, one eye on Sophia. “You and I are going out together.”

Oh, joy. “Do we have to?” Dave asked.

Decker ignored the question, instead holding out the car keys. “You want to drive?”

It was clearly a peace offering.

But across the room, Sophia pretended to stop to get some coffee. It was obvious, though, that her real reason for turning her back on the rest of the room was to wipe her eyes.

Mac had vanished, but what had that son of a bitch said to her to make her almost cry?

Dave went to find out. “Hey.”

She forced a smile. “Heading out?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “Are you all right? I saw you talking to Mac. If he said something inappropriate…”

“No. He just…” Her brave face suddenly crumbled. “Dave,” she whispered, “do you think everyone knows?”

“Knows that you’re a great person?” he countered, even though he knew she was referring to the nightmare she’d lived through as a prisoner and concubine of a vicious man. “Absolutely.”

But Sophia shook her head. “Doesn’t it seem too coincidental? That Alec should hit on me now? After hanging out with Gillman and Lopez, who saw my scars…” Her voice trailed off as she looked over his shoulder, and Dave realized Deck was standing right behind him.

The look in his eyes was pure
I’ll fucking kill them.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” Deck told Dave, and it was clear he was going to go kick some Navy SEAL ass. Sophia was too busy trying to hide her upset from Decker to notice.

Dave’s choice was between defusing the Decker-bomb or trying to set Sophia straight, and he let Deck disappear.

“Soph,” he said. “Come on. I’ve worked with these mega-mondo-alpha types before. Mac wasn’t hitting on you because he thinks you’re easy, or that you’ll put out. I mean, obviously, he’s hoping you’ll put out. You’re beautiful and extremely sexy and he wants you—both on his arm and in his bed. How could he not? But I’ve never heard him or anyone else talking about you with anything less than respect. In fact, it’s usually reverence. Worshipful, even.”

That got him a disbelieving smile. “Okay, that’s laying it on a little thick,” she said.

“It’s the truth,” he told her. “You’re a goddess, and they’re all overachievers. If they’re gossiping about you, I’d bet it’s about the fact that you keep saying no. These are men who take
no
as a challenge. You said no to Gillman, which probably made Mac more determined than ever to get you to say yes to him. Make sense?”

Sophia nodded. And hugged him. “You always say the right thing. I don’t know if it’s true, but, okay. It might be.”

“It is.” He closed his eyes as he hugged her, too, his cheek against the silkiness of her sweet-smelling hair.

“Be careful out there,” she told him.

“You be careful, too.”

She pulled away. “Careful not to burn my mouth on hot coffee? I’ll be here, safe and warm, while you’re—”

“Seriously,” he said. “Until we catch this guy, I want you to stay close to Lindsey or Tess.”

“Wait, haven’t I heard this story before?” she teased. “The men leave the women behind at the hunting lodge—or in this case, the Motel-ARama. Where’s Izzy with his
Give me back my leg?
” She laughed at his expression. “I’m kidding. Now
you
come on. Lindsey and Tess are both armed. And Stella and Robert are here. We’re ridiculously safe.”

“Those sound like such famous last words,” Dave said, glad, though, that her smile seemed more genuine. “Cut to scene of you, tied to railroad tracks.”

Her laughter was warm. “Go,” she said, pushing him away. “Find Tracy and bring her back here, healthy and alive. Then we’ll all have a celebration dinner.”

Those were much better last words. Cut to scene of bedroom, where the hero and the fairy-goddess blond heroine finally kiss, and fade to black.

Provided the hero ever got his head out of his ass.

“Go,” Sophia said again.

Dave bowed, just very slightly. “As you wish.”

It was then, as if punctuating his words, that the power went out.

In the dim light from the overworked generator, Lindsey had the full attention of all of the personnel, both SEALs and Troubleshooters, who were going out in groups of two, three, and four, to canvass the area.

She’d already pored over the maps, looking for isolated houses that were in relatively close—but not too close—proximity to both the quarry and the pharmacy that had been robbed, and had identified quite a few starting places.

She’d also played them the message Tracy had left on Lindsey’s home answering machine. God, it was weird to hear her voice. Tom had ordered them to assume she was still alive, but Lindsey could see from their eyes that many of them doubted it.

Yeah, hi, it’s me, Tracy. I’m calling from some pay phone on the freaking North Pole. I just got your cell number, so I’ll call you right back in a sec. See, there’s this guy who’s kind of hot, but kind of not—think if Ralph Fiennes sniffed glue—and he’s…Shoot, he’s getting out of his car. I feel like I should give you the license plate number, in case I drop off the face of the earth. Except it’s dark and…I think there’s a nine…That’s all I can see. There’s mud or pig poop on it, or whatever animal they farm up here. It’s got New Hampshire plates. Except, okay. He’s just refilling his windshield wiper fluid. Silly me. I’ll call you back on your cell.

Lindsey had shown the teams—thanks to the motel generator, Tess’s computer, and imdb.com—a photo of Ralph Fiennes, the handsome English actor who’d starred in
The English Patient
and
The Constant Gardener.
She’d also shown them photos of glue-sniffers—of their glazed and vacant eyes. It was probable that Tracy had been exaggerating in her description of the man who’d abducted her, but Lindsey wanted to arm them as thoroughly as possible.

“When they answer the door, be friendly,” Lindsey reminded them. Alyssa was going out with Sam and a SEAL officer named John Nilsson. Dave was with Decker, although Deck was conspicuously absent from this briefing. A group of SEALs she didn’t know very well were actually taking notes. Good for them. “Ask for their help in finding a missing woman—don’t mention serial killers or the murder of the pharmacist. Ask to come inside. Use small talk—the flu’s been going around, ask if anyone in the house has been ill. Notice the smell. You can smell sickness, and you can smell death. Especially in the winter with the windows closed. Notice, too, any overpowering scents that might be used to mask those odors. Ask to talk to all of the other people who live in the house. Ask about their neighbors—how long have they known them. Remember, it’s possible that Richard Eulie, our suspect, has only been living in the area for three years. He may be perceived as a relative newcomer. Any questions?”

God, she wished she were going out there, with them.

But even more than that, she wished Tracy had never disappeared.

And as long as she was making wishes, she wished Jenk were sitting there, looking back at her. Instead, he was with one of the teams that would be moving the sat dishes to new locations.

Lindsey didn’t feel as frightened when he was beside her. The panic came when he was gone. What was she doing, telling him she’d think about going home with him for Christmas? Meeting his parents as if she were his girlfriend?

There were no questions—everyone was eager to get on their way.

Chains had been put on tires.

Weapons were checked and holstered. She herself had her usual setup—a pair of .22 caliber handguns, lightweight and easily concealable. Not extremely useful in long-range situations, but completely capable when up close and personal.

Not that she’d be needing a weapon.

Still, both Tom and Alyssa had checked with Lindsey and Tess, too, making sure they were armed.

As the motel cleared out, with the wind howling and the snow falling sideways, swirling around, the emptiness was decidedly creepy.

Lindsey went back to the maps, studying the twisting labyrinth of mountain roads.

If she were a serial killer, where would she be?

Visibility sucked.

And the tires kept slipping off the freaking road.

It wasn’t due to the whiteout conditions caused by the wind and falling snow, although that didn’t help.

It was the lack of guardrails or markers on these poorly maintained back roads that were screwing Jenk up the most. With a blanket of snow already on the ground, drifting high in places, he found himself unable to define just how wide the road was. He invariably ended up leaving the pavement with his right wheels.

The shoulder often sloped, sometimes rather steeply, but he was always able to wrestle the vehicle back.

Except for this time.
Shit.
“Hold on!”

He focused on keeping the car on all its wheels, managing only to slip and skid down into a ditch along the side of the road.

“Jesus, Jenkins.” Gillman was less than pleased. “Will you let me drive now?”

“That was fucking awesome driving, asshole,” Izzy came back at him. They were all already out of the car, working to get it back up to the road. He shouted over the howl of the wind. “He kept us from rolling over. You think pushing this is heavy? Try turning one of these fuckers over.”

Getting the SUV back up the slippery hill wasn’t going to happen with mere muscle. They needed traction. Jenk opened the rear door. There were shovels and bags of sand in the back.

“Danny’s still freaked out,” Lopez said, his voice muffled beneath his ski mask and hood, as he tore open one of the bags, “from that whole confrontation with Larry Decker.”

“You were freaked, too,” Gillman told Lopez. “Don’t deny it. He’s one scary mofo.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who hit on Sophia,” Lopez pointed out. “You’re freaked out about
that,
too.”

“I wouldn’t have hit on her,” Gillman said, “if I’d’ve known about…I mean, God, the shit she’s been through. A woman like that should come with a warning label. I mean, she told me she had baggage, but, man.”

“Will you fucking stop yapping and push?” Izzy said.

Jesus, it was cold. The windblown snow felt like needles of ice on Jenk’s face. He climbed behind the wheel and put the vehicle in gear as his teammates dug in their boots and heaved. The engine whined and the tires spun—and finally caught.

And they were back on their way.

“My hair’s entirely iced,” Gillman complained as Lopez cranked the heater.

Izzy was unsympathetic. “Next time wear a hat, douche-bag.” He turned to Lopez, who had the map. “How much farther?”

“Another three kilometers.”

“Jenk,” Gillman said, “you and Lindsey are pretty close, and she’s friends with Sophia, right? Did she tell you about…? You know.”